


Wild Rippling Water

by snarkypants



Category: True Grit (2010)
Genre: 1880s, 19th Century, Eloping, F/M, Family Drama, Friendship, Texas, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Western, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkypants/pseuds/snarkypants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mattie Ross never expected that her sister would elope with a bounder, her brother would go off after them, and she'd be stuck at home. But then she never expected that LaBoeuf would return to Arkansas after a 5 year absence, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my dear jenbachand for reading this over!
> 
> Sorry for any formatting irregularities; I had a right royal b-word uploading this for some reason, and had to do all the formatting manually, so I may have missed/goofed some.

Wild Rippling Water by snarkypants

 

The room to which Mrs. Floyd led him was the same one where Mattie Ross had slept years before. Grandma Turner was not now in evidence, but there remained a lingering scent of camphor oil in the room.

It had taken him six bits to be rid of Grandma Turner for the duration of his interview with Mattie Ross. The old woman had protested at first, insisting that the girl needed her nearby for the sake of propriety, but she changed her tune when he withdrew his coin purse. As soon as the coins were in her knurled arthritic hands she was out of the bed and down the stairs with a speed that surprised him, leaving him alone with the girl.

The old woman’s mercenary turn had been disturbing. On one hand, it made his work easier, but what if he had been the sort of man to take advantage?

Mattie Ross was fortunate, indeed, that he did not pursue his thought of stealing a kiss. No one would have blamed him for stealing _more_ than a kiss, since she had removed herself from the safety of her family, and had behaved with unfeminine willfulness withal.

He had set out to scare her, to intimidate her into compliance, first with his presence and, that failing, with his words. Neither had worked. The girl’s saucy manner might easily have provoked a lesser man, a man without LaBoeuf’s scruples, into ungentlemanly behavior.

“Have you been here before, Mr. LaBoeuf?” Mrs. Floyd asked, looking at him with a narrowed eye.

“I have, ma’am. About five years ago.”

She smiled beneficently, mystery solved. “Oh, I never forget a face,” she said. “I may not be handy with names, but once I have seen a face it is locked in my memory forever. What brings you back to Fort Smith?”

“I am testifying before Judge Parker’s court.”

“You are the Texas Ranger, yes, I remember now. You were here about the business with that poor girl and her father.”

“’Poor girl,’” he echoed. “Do you mean Mattie Ross?”

“Oh, yes, that was her name.”

“Last I heard about her was that she was expected to recover.”

“She did recover, but the doctor had to take her arm, the poor little thing. I saw her as they put her on the train for home, and I declare you have never seen anything so pitiful in your life before. We gathered up half the town to bid her farewell.”

The Mattie Ross he had known would not have liked that. He could picture her easily, stone-faced and glaring at the ostensible well-wishers.

“Do you hear any more of her?”

Mrs. Floyd’s eyes lit up, and her smile became even more cloying. “Well, sir, I do not hear much from Dardanelle, but I can tell you that your Miss Ross is at home and unmarried still.”

“That is not what—” he began, but Mrs. Floyd was off and running.

“I swan that is precisely what that poor girl needs: a good, Christian man who will take her on despite her defects.” Her face creased with some garish swell of emotion. “Oh, God bless you, sir.”

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, and moved toward the door, hoping she would take the hint.

She did, but as he was closing the door she stuck her head back into the room. “If you would like paper and ink to write her they are in the parlor downstairs. I will just add a dime to your keep.”

 

 

_Monarch Boarding House_   
_Fort Smith, Arkansas_   
_April 13th, 1885_

_Dear Madam:_   
_May I call on you and your family on the afternoon of Thursday, the 16th of April? I am in Fort Smith on business, and at its conclusion, if welcome, would take the train the short distance to Dardanelle happily to renew my acquaintance._   
_Respectfully yours,_   
_G. J. LaBoeuf_

 

The return letter arrived the following evening, written in a delicate, spidery hand, with the loops pulled so thin as to be almost invisible.

 

_Dardanelle, Arkansas_

_April 14th, 1885_

_Dear Sir:_   
_You are indeed most welcome to call on us Thursday. We will expect you at some time after four in the afternoon. If you are not too greatly detained by travel, you are cordially invited to join us for supper, which will be ready at six that evening._   
_Yours sincerely,_   
_Mary Ross_

 

Once in Dardanelle LaBoeuf installed himself in a respectable-looking boarding house not far from the station. The proprietress, Mrs. Hayden was neither as garrulous nor as parsimonious as Mrs. Floyd at the Monarch had been, and her maid brought him a bowl of hot water and a small looking glass without requiring him to explain why he wished to look as well as he might.

When he had chosen the Monarch back in Fort Smith he forgotten both the sparse quality of Mrs. Floyd’s bill of fare and the landlady’s innate officiousness, else he might have chosen another boarding house. His only excuse was that when he disembarked the train, groggy and fatigued with the day’s travel, the familiarity of the house had been a spur moving him onwards, so to speak.

Of course, if he had chosen another boarding house he would not have heard more about the girl Mattie… or Miss Ross, as he supposed he should now call her.

He dressed himself in his spare shirt. This, like his neckerchief, was freshly laundered; he had learned that laundry was one service that Mrs. Floyd provided well, although it came dear, and the knowing look she gave him almost convinced him to give up the enterprise. He buttoned up his waistcoat and gave a cursory shine to his badge of office.

After giving the jacket of his court suit a good shaking out he decided that it was still up to standards. It smelled of cigar smoke, but such things were to be expected when travelling. If he were at home (or what passed for home these days), he would have taken a brush to the dark brown corduroy, but as with the smoke this could not be helped.

The short walk to the Ross house was pleasant, especially after being cooped up in either a train or a courtroom for several days. It was just warm enough that he did not miss his buckskins and flannels, just cool enough that he did not break a sweat.

He was unaccustomed to journeying without a horse, and every so often on this trip he had caught himself wondering how Pablo fared in the train’s livestock car or at the town’s livery stable, before he remembered that the gelding was in the troop herd in Texas, unaware of either LaBoeuf’s absence or concern.

The turning of the road amidst a small grove of pecan trees was just as he had remembered it. The house, too, with its tidy outbuildings and garden, was much the same. A well-appointed buggy sat near the barn, with a pair of well-matched bays harnessed to it.

The last time he had been here, Mattie’s younger brother had met him out front, chattering about horses and looking with wide, impressed eyes at his gun rig and the Sharps Carbine on his saddle. Her younger sister had hidden herself behind the front door as he spoke with Mrs. Ross, peeping out at him with one eye. Neither child was now in evidence; he walked up to the door in silence.

Mattie opened the door with a pleasing eagerness, but then she just stared at him, as though he had materialized from the ether. He removed his hat and she blinked a few times, as though not quite trusting her eyes.

“Good heavens, it is Mr. LaBoeuf,” she finally said, weakly at that.

“’Good heavens’?” he echoed, feeling a prickling of the annoyance she had engendered in him years ago. “I am not given to dropping in without warning, Miss Ross; I assure you, I was invited.”

She shook her head, and tried to smile at him. “Of course you are. Is it Thursday? Forgive my manners; we have had some upheaval here in the past few days, and I was supposing… well, I thought to see my brother or my sister at the doorstep, not you, a friend.”

He accepted the apology with a curt nod, and took her in with a shock of his own. His eye went to the left sleeve of her blouse: nonexistent from the elbow down, the truncated sleeve sewn shut so as not to waste fabric on an empty forearm. His heart made a sick little thump in his chest. The gossipy Mrs. Floyd had the right of it.

He realized that he had been somehow expecting to see the same young girl he had last seen in the Winding Stair Mountains, still whole and still wearing her childish short skirts and braids. He could not account for it, but all of a sudden he felt ancient.

She was no prettier than she had been as a girl, but there was brilliancy to her complexion that somehow offset her stern bearing. She bore not one superfluous scrap of ornament on her person. Mattie had grown tall and slender, and the color and cut of her simple ash-grey gown suited her angular frame and haughty face far better than would the doll-like excesses of flounces and ringlets worn by fashionable young women.

“It would be wrong for me to turn you back when you have come so far out of your way,” she was saying, “but you may not wish to remain, and I would not begrudge you for it at all.”

“Begrudge me… what, exactly? What has happened?”

She brought her thin hand to her forehead and pressed with her fingertips. “There is some, ah, difficulty with my sister and as a result there is some difficulty with my brother and therefore with my mother. As a result of all these, the family supper that was promised you may be little more than the ‘dinner of herbs,’ but I will do my best.” She paused to take a breath and she smiled at him. “Please forgive my grumbling. It does me good to see you so well, Mr. LaBoeuf.”

“Can I be of some assistance?” he asked, more from politeness than anything else.

“I very much doubt it, but thank you for asking.” She paused. “This is your last chance to withdraw, Mr. LaBoeuf.”

“I am made of sterner stuff than that, Miss Ross.”

“I do remember it; ‘ever stalwart,’ indeed.” She offered him her hand to shake, and he took it. “Please come in.”

She admitted him into a darkened parlor where an agitated Mrs. Ross sat in state; she was now but a frail rendering of the woman he had met five years ago. The shades were drawn and the lamps were lit, giving everything the aspect of twilight, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust. An older man, bald but for a luxurious sweep of silvery moustaches, sat nearest Mrs. Ross; he rose when Mattie and LaBoeuf entered the room.

“Mama, you remember Mr. LaBoeuf, of course.”

Mrs. Ross nodded, and murmured, “Mr. LaBoeuf,” and LaBoeuf dipped his head toward her.

“Mr. Daggett, allow me to introduce to you Mr. LaBoeuf of the Texas Rangers,” Mattie said. “Mr. LaBoeuf, Mr. Daggett, our attorney and a dear family friend.” After a fleeting assessing look and a nod the men shook hands.

“Please do be seated,” she said, and Daggett took his seat without pause. This, then, was how the house was run: Mattie in charge. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“I am comfortable, thank you,” LaBoeuf said, sitting at the other end of the settee from Daggett, his hat in his lap.

Mattie took up the other parlor chair by the stove.

“Please do not keep me in suspense, Mr. LaBoeuf; I must know what news you have,” Mrs. Ross said.

“I would not willfully keep you in suspense, ma’am, but I do not know what you are talking about.”

He saw Daggett and Mattie exchange a glance and then she took a deep breath and spoke. “Mr. LaBoeuf, my younger sister Victoria has eloped with a man of… uncertain character.”

“There must be some misunderstanding, Mattie,” Mrs. Ross piped in a tremulous voice. “Victoria is a good girl; she would not purposely cause me such worry.”

“Mama, there is no misunderstanding; she wrote the letter herself.” Mattie’s voice was gentle but firm.

“Perhaps she was compelled away from home, and here is good Mr. LaBoeuf to bring her home again.”

He could not school his features quickly enough to conceal his dismay; the look Mattie turned on him was both amused and pitying, as if to say, “Do you see what you have gotten yourself into?”

“You must read the letter, Mr. LaBoeuf; you can assess its credibility,” Mrs. Ross said. She began to look about her for the letter, which served only to increase her agitation when she could not lay hands on it at once. “Oh! Oh! Where is it?”

“I have it, Mama,” Mattie said, pulling it from her pocket.

“Oh, Mattie! Do you not see how vexed I am?” The older woman was nearly in tears, wringing her hands together.

“Yes, Mama, I do see. I am sorry.” Her tone was softer than LaBoeuf had ever heard it, and she exchanged another of those odd glances with Daggett. She rose to pass the letter to LaBoeuf, and he rose to accept it.

He read it with some difficulty; the room was dark and Victoria’s handwriting was uneven, with numerous inkblots marring the page.

 

_Mama sence you & Mattie will not let us Marry Stephen and I are Gone Away into_  
Indin Territory where You Cannot Find Us. Good-bye. Yr Daughter Victoria

  
He looked back up again, to see Mrs. Ross’s eager eyes following his every move. It was uncharitable of him to compare her expression to a big-eyed spaniel awaiting a treat, but the resemblance did occur to him. “Mrs. Ross—” he began.

“Do you not see?” she said. “She must have been coerced.”

LaBoeuf looked to Mattie for guidance, and she shrugged. “Ma’am, I see no clear indication of coercion here,” he said. “It is possible—” he began again, only to be cut off once more.

Mrs. Ross burst into tears. “You are all so inclined to believe the worst.” For such a fragile thing she was on her feet and out the door before LaBoeuf could even do her the courtesy of rising.

Mattie gave them both a pained look before following her mother.

LaBoeuf just stood there for a moment, feeling awkwardly as though he ought to apologize for something, but for what, and to whom?

Daggett, who had also risen to his feet, looked at LaBoeuf as they seated themselves once more. “Do not be alarmed; Mrs. Ross will be better now. Mattie will give her a medicine for her nerves, and she will sleep.”

As the ‘formal call’ appeared to be over, LaBoeuf set his hat on the floor by his feet. “How long has all this been going on?”

“With Victoria, you mean? Mattie discovered the letter yesterday morning.”

“They are for Indian Territory? I wish them joy of it; the Nations do not permit elopers to remain there.”

Daggett nodded, looking at LaBoeuf with a growing respect. “Those are my thoughts exactly.”

“Where is the brother?”

“Frank is on the trail after them, with naught but a horse and a pistol and ten dollars cash; that is but one of the things we are keeping dark from Mrs. Ross.”

“Mattie—Miss Ross, I mean—I am surprised that she did not go.”

“She meant to, but… if I may be blunt, her deformity makes it impossible for her to mount up without some assistance, which I believe is a blessing in disguise. She would have taken the gig but I finally convinced her that Babcock is unlikely to take the main roads. She could pass them by and never know it.”

“Who is this fellow? Miss Ross called him a man of ‘uncertain character,’ but if he has eloped with the girl I would say there is nothing ‘uncertain’ about it.”

“Stephen P. Babcock, he called himself. He claimed to be from Memphis, but Mattie had some doubts, so I had my man of business in that city make some discreet enquiries about him, to no avail.”

“You learned no ill of him, you mean?”

“I learned nothing of him at _all_. If he ever lived in Memphis, it was not as ‘Stephen Babcock.’ A man named ‘Stephen Peter Babbitt’ lived there a few years back, but I cannot confirm that they are the same man.”

LaBoeuf leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I have heard of a ‘Stinky Pete’ Babbitt,” he said, almost musing to himself. “His name is on the Texas adjutant general’s fugitive list.”

“You are certain of this?”

“Quite certain; when I draw a ‘herd day’ I take the fugitive list with me to read while I watch the stock. I have seen that name many times.”

“What is he wanted for?”

“Stock theft. As I recall the bounty was ‘small potatoes,’ say two hundred.”

“I will pay you another two hundred to help me catch up to him and bring my sister and brother home,” Mattie said from the doorway.

He and Daggett both rose to their feet again, but she motioned for them to sit as she closed the door behind her.

“Mattie, no,” Daggett said with a groan. “Your poor mother cannot take the strain of having all of you away at once.”

Mattie’s face creased briefly, but after a glance at Daggett she spoke as though the lawyer had said nothing. “If we do not get Babcock or Victoria but we keep Little Frank from killing him, I will pay you one hundred dollars.”

“You are making the presumption that Babcock and Babbitt are the same man, which is pure conjecture at this point,” LaBoeuf said. “Tell me what you know of Babcock. Is _he_ a criminal?”

“He has lured my young sister away from the protection of her home and family; is that not sufficiently wicked?”

“It is disgraceful, but I presume the young lady is of legal age for marriage.”

Mattie clamped her lips together, making a thin line of them. “She is fifteen, so she would be if Mama gives her consent. Which she does not,” she added.

“What is your objection to the man?”

There was something furtive in her expression, but he could not quite identify it. Her gaze sought out Daggett’s for a moment before sliding back to LaBoeuf. “He is shiftless and a Papist.”

“He has Romish tendencies? Now that _is_ criminal,” LaBoeuf said, smirking at the arrogant look Mattie gave him.

“Oh, I am not opposed to Papists on principle; they are welcome to their idols and their beads, but Victoria is a Presbyterian and she cannot marry him.”

Somehow that did not ring quite true to LaBoeuf, so he pushed harder. “Is that all? I find that hard to believe. Perhaps he was your beau, Miss Ross, and then threw you over for your sister. Could that account for your ardor in this?”

Her lip curled. “Far from it; I think you will allow that I am not such a fool as to be taken in by a pretty stranger with fancy clothes and fancier talk.”

He shrugged, holding her gaze. “Everyone has some sort of a weakness.”

“That is not my weakness; I am trying to protect my sister from an imprudent marriage.”

“There are worse things, Miss Ross.”

Her face colored. “I am not as ignorant as you seem to think. Marriage will be the lesser of several evils if we do not find them.”

He cleared his throat. “Miss Ross… Mattie… Your sister would not be the first good girl to forget herself, not by a long shot. You may need to resign yourself to having a Catholic brother-in-law.”

She looked back to Daggett, who seemed to shrug, holding his hands open, and then she took a deep breath. “Mama does not know it, but this man Babbitt left a wife in Memphis. If he and Babcock are one and the same he means to commit bigamy, or he does not intend to marry Victoria at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1: Presbyterians really were forbidden from marrying Catholics at this time.
> 
> LaBoeuf’s belief that Mattie’s actions could ‘provoke’ a man into ungentlemanly behavior was the thinking of the times, not the author’s opinion (which is that no one deserves to be sexually assaulted, no matter what).
> 
> I have set this story in 1885, five years after the action of the film. This may be a controversial choice, but my thinking was this: LaBoeuf goes to war when he’s 15 and sees six months of service before the surrender in 1865. For me, that put his date of birth in 1850. The book describes him as being in his 30s, so I guessed the story to be taking place in 1880. The filmmakers/crew on the Blu-ray disc variously describe the year as 1876 and 1878 (with fashions from the 1860s, oddly), and the titles to some of the featurettes indicate that the date was 1880. In the absence of a definite date, I chose my own. Neener neener neener.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks and hearts to jenbachand.

  
**Wild Rippling Water** by snarkypants  
Chapter Two  


  
At length Lawyer Daggett stood. “Well, Mattie, I am wanted in town; may I convey you back to your lodgings, Mr. LaBoeuf?”

LaBoeuf appeared to be on the verge of accepting, but Mattie spoke up. “I cannot let him go back without a meal; he will have missed supper at Mrs. Hayden’s.”

Daggett paused long enough that Mattie heard the unspoken demur in it. “Very well, then. Send word if you hear anything further. Good evening to you.”

Mattie walked Daggett to the door. “Take care, Mattie,” he said, pinning her with his scrutiny. Mattie rarely saw the J. Noble Daggett that the steamboat owners saw when he excoriated them in court; the man she had known from her childhood had a jolly smile and a tolerant expression. She saw now how very flinty his eyes could be when he was delivering a warning.

“Do not worry, Mr. Daggett,” she said, trying to soothe his ruffled feathers. “Mr. LaBoeuf is a gentleman, and my mother is just down the hall.”

He worried at his lower lip with his teeth, causing his moustaches to undulate like a caterpillar wriggling across a leaf. “Mattie, with your father gone and your mother ill, it falls to me to advise you in this: it will do your reputation no good for you to go off into the wilderness alone with this man.”

She sighed, impatient. “What other option is open to me, Mr. Daggett? And I trust Mr. LaBoeuf unreservedly; perhaps you can forget that he saved my life in the Winding Stair Mountains, but I cannot.”

“You were a child to him then, but like any man he is only as good as the woman he is with.”

“Since I am generally accounted ‘good,’ or at the very least ‘off-putting,’ I do not foresee a problem.”

He shook his head, clearly still perturbed. “Take care,” he said again, taking his hat from her.

“I will.”

“Please convey my respects to your mother.”

“Of course.”

  
\-----------------------------  


LaBoeuf was solemn when she returned to the parlor. “I do not mean to cause trouble for you,” he said.

“You have not caused any trouble for me,” she said. “I feel it keenly that you should be lured all the way out here on that train for such mean hospitality.”

“I have endured worse, I assure you.”

“Of that I have little doubt, but you are in Arkansas now and this is a point of pride.” She paused, biting her lip. “Would you be so good as to join me in the kitchen? It is not quite proper, particularly since you are a guest, but I may need your assistance.”

“I would be happy to, Miss Ross,” he said, and followed her.

The kitchen was a large room, situated on the north side of the house where it might provide additional warmth during the winter. There was a stone fireplace that appeared to date to the time of the house’s building, but the modern coal stove was probably the favored instrument; LaBoeuf’s mother had much preferred the stove to the fire, despite her wood stove’s finicky temperament.

The walls and ceiling were painted milky arsenic green to keep down flies, and the heart pine floors gleamed in the lamplight.

Mattie raised a long cotton apron over her head and spent a few moments lowering it and tugging it into place; LaBoeuf saw that it was already fastened in the back so she would not require assistance with it.

Her garments protected, she fed coal into the belly of the stove and arranged the coals with a poker, stirring the embers to glowing life.

“Would you care to do some chopping?” she asked. “Else you could be here all night waiting for your supper.”

He agreed and she handed him a knife, and then a bowl containing a few potatoes and an onion. “Peel and cut the potatoes into cubes about the size of my thumbnail, and then cut the onion into pieces the size of my fingernail.” She showed him the nails in question as she spoke. “Do you have any questions?” she asked.

“Miss Ross, I was in the army. I know how to process potatoes,” he said in a long-suffering voice, and sat at the table to do just that.

“Very well, then,” she said. She lit a lantern and went out the kitchen door, returning a few minutes later with a bunch of dark green leaves stuffed into the large pocket on the front of her apron. She rinsed the dirt off and set to stripping the spinach leaves from their tough stems. They worked in companionable silence. Every so often she would look across the kitchen table to gauge his progress, and nod her approval.

When the spinach was prepared she went outdoors again, bringing up an earthenware crock from the cellar; she set about spooning up lumps of sausage from the crock and forming them into patties. She dredged these in flour and set them aside while the pan heated.

By this time LaBoeuf’s preparatory work was complete and he was at leisure to watch as she sprinkled water into the hot pan until the drops crackled and skated across the black iron. She transferred patties to the pan with a fork, balancing them with the forefinger of her remaining hand, with the ease of long practice.

While the sausages sizzled, releasing their rich fragrance of meat and sage and fennel, she poured cream into a saucepan, stirring as it heated on the stove. When she deemed it sufficiently thick she dropped in the spinach and stirred as it wilted and gave up its color to the cream. She paused to flip the sausages to their other sides with the fork, and then she moved the creamed spinach to the back of the stovetop to cool.

“Are the potatoes and onions ready?” she asked, and he answered in the affirmative. She removed the sausage patties from the pan and put them on a platter, and then heated some bacon drippings in the same pan, gradually adding the hash that LaBoeuf had chopped. She stirred the potatoes until they were golden brown and slightly crispy on the outside, and then she moved the pan off the burner.

It took some doing, but LaBoeuf was able to convince Mattie that he would be more comfortable eating in the kitchen than in the dining room, as it was just the two of them. “Let me check on Mama; she may wish to join us,” she said, ducking out of the room.

LaBoeuf served plates for both of them and put them on the table, and waited for Mattie’s return.

“She is fast asleep,” Mattie said after a few moments; her skirts made a rustling noise against the door frame. She had removed her apron, and she hung it on a hook by the door.

It was a simple, wholesome meal, and LaBoeuf ate until his ribs creaked, sopping up the residue on his plate with pieces of sourdough bread slathered with sweet butter.

“Thank you, Miss Ross,” he said, pushing away his plate. “I cannot remember the last time I had such a good supper. The food we get in camp is little better than bully beef, often salted to within an inch of its life, and there is little to no produce to be had.”

“It is a pity that Victoria is not here; she is the true cook in the family,” Mattie said, and then her expression darkened. The tin percolator on the stove wheezed and gasped, drawing her attention away from her thoughts.

“You are worried about her,” he said, and she nodded. “Did you have any indication your sister was making plans with Babcock?”

“Not at all; Mama had invited him to dinner the night before, and nothing seemed amiss. Victoria admired him, but not in the silly way she has with the local boys; I thought it was a good thing, for the most part. Mr. Babcock and Mama sat in the parlor while we did the dishes and Frank tended the animals. Victoria sat with Mr. Babcock on the porch for a little while, and that was all. He left and we went to bed. The next morning Victoria was gone.”

“In the note she said that you would not let them get married.”

“That is a mystery; he never broached the subject with either of us, and neither did Victoria. I _would_ have discouraged it since I had some doubts about him, but I never got the chance.”

“Was there anything unusual about that night?”

“No. Frank was provoking me more than usual, but that was because—” she began, and then broke off, gaping at him and, oddly enough, blushing.

“Because…?” he prompted.

“Frank was teasing me about your visit, going on and on about my ‘suitor,’ the Texas Ranger.” She winced. “That is just his way of provoking me; he also claims Marshal Cogburn for my suitor, so please do not take anything by it.”

“Perhaps I flatter myself, but I should go a long way to be as inappropriate a suitor as _Cogburn_ ,” he said, stung. “But that is neither here nor there; that was when Babcock learned I was coming to visit, was it?”

She nodded. “It was. The _timing_ of the elopement, at least, makes sense.”

“Miss Ross, I think that I will wire my company tomorrow, to see if I might learn more about this man Babcock.”

“So you will be staying for a day or two longer?” she asked.

He could not tell by either her tone or her expression whether this was pleasing to her or not. “I believe I will.”

“Oh, the coffee,” she said. She went to fetch the percolator, returning to the table to pour both of them a cup. She set out a jug of cream and a small lidded bowl of white sugar.

“Well, I reckon this beats all,” he said with a grin, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his cup.

“Do you care for gingerbread?” she asked, and he shook his head, groaning.

“No, thank you. I will make myself ill if I do not check my appetite here.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it; it is the least I can do. You deserve much more of a fuss than we are able to make just now.”

He tried to object, but his heart was not quite in it; he enjoyed her admiration more than he wanted to admit.

“Would you care to go sit on the porch and smoke your pipe while I clean the dishes?”

“I believe I will take you up on that,” he said. “What about your stock, do you need help with them?”

“No, thank you; one of our tenants is looking after the animals until things settle down here.”

“All right.”

“Make yourself comfortable, and I will be out directly,” she said.

\-----------------------------

  
LaBoeuf looked quite at home on the porch; her papa’s last remaining old bird dog, Hector, was stretched out beside his chair, having clearly made a friend. His tail wagged lazily as Mattie joined them, and she gave the beast a scratch behind the ear.  


“Whatever have you done with your buckskins, Mr. LaBoeuf?” she asked. Her hand was still damp from washing-up, and she tried surreptitiously to wipe it on the folds of her skirt. “I did not recognize you at first without all of your Texas trappings.”

“This is my court suit.” He looked at her through a haze of pipe smoke. “Do you approve?”

“Very appropriate for Arkansas, but I think it would not pass muster in Texas. Not enough fringes and furbelows for your state. They might stop you at the border and forbid you re-entry.”

“Do not fear on that score; my buckskins are in my valise, back in town.”

“You relieve my mind.”

“Until I got to Fort Smith I was unaware that you had, ah, lost your arm,” he said haltingly, ducking his head a little. “I am sorrier than I can express.”

“What for?” She squinted at him, genuinely surprised. “You did more to save my life than anyone except perhaps Marshal Cogburn. You have nothing whatsoever to regret.”

“Well. I call it a sorry turn of affairs, that a young girl was disfigured while under my protection.”

“While I take issue with your use of the word ‘protection’ I fail to see how you could have prevented any of it; you did everything you could to stop me.”

He grimaced. “Do you regret it?”

“Not at all,” she said. “I achieved my goal and got justice for my father. Everything after that is of no importance.”

“Losing an arm is of no importance?”

“What is lost will be restored in the hereafter; my defect means that I have a few more challenges in accomplishing my daily tasks, but I do accomplish them. What about you: have you recovered fully from our meeting with Tom Chaney?”

“I suffer from the head-ache and blurred vision from time to time, but that is the extent of it.”

“Your shoulder and your mouth healed cleanly, I hope?”

“They did.”

She nodded, approving. “I am glad to hear it. I would like to know how the marshal fares, but I cannot locate him.”

“Aw, hel--,” he began, and stopped, clearing his throat. “He came out of it better than either of us,” LaBoeuf said. “A few pellets to the face, was all.”

“Hm,” Mattie said, not convinced. “I have heard that he married the widow Potter and moved to Texas, but that is all I can discover. I do hope that all is well with him.”

Hector sighed noisily between them.

LaBoeuf hesitated, as though choosing his words carefully. “He is quite a character.”

She darted a sidelong glance at him, taking his meaning, and changed the subject. “How did you come to testify for Judge Parker? Surely you have not left the Ranger troop.”

“No, quite the opposite; I have earned a new posting, and am now the most senior sergeant in my company. I am now stationed in Wichita Falls, which is adjacent to the Comanche Nation.”

“Congratulations. Do you like your new posting?”

He nodded his thanks, and then paused, considering his words. “I am not yet accustomed to the high prairie. I do not remember the wind in Ysleta ever being so relentless, and I miss the mountains. There are greater opportunities for command, however, so my duties are more varied.”

“That sounds like a mixed blessing to me.”

“It can be.” He leaned back in his chair, and his demeanor, always somewhat professorial, became even more so; she bit her lip to keep from smiling. “You have seen for yourself that outlaws seldom stop at the state line and offer themselves up for surrender; this particular criminal killed a soldier at Fort Sill after we pursued him into the Nation, and he was brought to answer for it.”

“Was the man convicted?”

“He was.” He drew on his pipe.

“I presume he will be hanged.”

“That was the sentence.” He shook his head. “I still have no great love for the U.S. Army, but that young private did not deserve what Richards did to him. It was cold-blooded murder.”

“It is a fine thing that he was convicted; good work, Mr. LaBoeuf.”

“That is always my goal, thank you.”

“When do you think you will hear back from your company about Babcock?”

“By Saturday at the latest, I think. Why?”

“We will set out on Saturday, or possibly Sunday, then. That gives me a few days to get our provisions ready.”

His eyebrows went straight up, nearly meeting his hairline. “ _We_ are not going to set out anywhere. I mean only to alert the marshals in Fort Smith to his presence and his known aliases, and then I am going to return to Texas.”

“You will not go with me,” she said.

“That is what I said.”

She exhaled loudly through her nose. “Well then, I shall have to go on my own,” she said in a tight voice. Hector sat up, alerted by her tone; he looked anxiously from Mattie to LaBoeuf.

“Do not be foolish, Mattie. I know you cannot go out on your own, and I will not go with you. Let that be an end to it.”

“Who says that I cannot?”

“I do. You might be able to mount up in your own yard, but what about on the trail, where you cannot count on obliging mounting blocks or fences, or even fortuitously placed rocks?”

She was silent, trying to find an argument to this, when he spoke again.

“Put aside your vanity and your pride and leave your brother to it.”

“Vanity!”

“Yes, vanity. You believe that you alone are capable; what would you call it?”

“Little Frank is seventeen; he knows nothing of being on the trail.”

“Nor did you, but you learned, and so will he.”

“What if he is—” she began loudly, and then lowered her voice. “—killed? What if he kills Babcock and ends up in prison? Mama would never recover.”

“You cannot hide him behind your petticoats forever. I was younger when I went to war, and you were younger still when you killed Chelmsford.”

The breath left her body as though she had been punched in the belly. “We did our _duty_. This is… this is merely a _lark_ to a rash, heedless boy.”

He gave her a long, level look. “If you wish him to remain rash and heedless, pray continue on your present course.”

“Oh! Well, if you are so inclined to take his part you are at liberty to join him on the trail.”

He laughed out loud, exasperated. “Haw haw! I had almost forgotten what a little martinet you are. Do you not see what he is up against? His own sister, when younger than he is now, avenged his father’s murder, witnessed unspeakable violence, and survived the company of both vicious outlaws and rattlesnakes. How could he possibly hope to live up to that?”

“Who would expect him to do this? Not I and certainly not my mother.”

“He expects it, depend on it.”

“Well, that is arrant foolishness.”

“Mattie, whether you like it or not, he is the man of the family—”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued over her.

“—and however much you may ride roughshod over your mother and Lawyer Daggett, you are doing Frank a disservice when you do the same with him. He will be a husband and a father someday; what sort will he be if he cannot take care of himself for a few days?”

That brought her up short, and it was a disconcerting experience; her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she could summon the words to strike back. “I do not recall giving you permission to use my Christian name, Mr. LaBoeuf,” she scolded.

He glared at her, annoyed. “Well, for _that_ I apologize, Miss Ross.”

“For _that_ I accept.”

“Good.” He tapped the bowl of his pipe on the porch rail, knocking the spent tobacco to the dirt, and then he tucked the cooled pipe into his jacket.

“Good,” she echoed, looking out across the yard.

All was silent between them for several minutes. LaBoeuf laced his fingers together over his waist and Mattie plucked at a loose thread on her skirt. One of Yarnell Poindexter’s dogs barked and howled across the way, and Hector again sat at attention, whining a little as a prelude to barking, but Mattie hissed at him, shushing him, and he subsided again.

“That is a good dog,” LaBoeuf said.

“He is. My father trained him.” Hector wagged his tail and grinned at them both, happy to be the center of attention. He stuck his long snout under LaBoeuf’s hand and nudged until LaBoeuf had no choice but to rub his ears.

Finally LaBoeuf rose to his feet and cleared his throat. “Thank you for a fine meal and your good company, Miss Ross.”

She looked skeptically at him, but he appeared and sounded sincere. Shaking her head in wonderment, she replied in a mild tone, “If your life in Texas renders _this_ a fine meal and _me_ good company you may need to consider relocating, Mr. LaBoeuf.”

“I believe the appropriate reply is ‘you’re welcome,’ Miss Ross.” _Now_ he appeared smug.

She scowled at him. “You’re welcome.”

He grinned at her, and put on his hat. “Good night, Miss Ross.”

“Good night, Mr. LaBoeuf.”

The dog followed LaBoeuf until he got to the fence and Mattie called him back. She watched LaBoeuf walk away until he had passed the stand of pecan trees and was out of sight.

\-----------------------------

  


  
In the privacy of his room at Mrs. Hayden’s boarding house, LaBoeuf withdrew a little leather-bound diary he kept in his pocket. Due perhaps to his advancing years, or perhaps to the blow to the head he sustained in apprehension of Chelmsford, he no longer cared to rely exclusively on memory for important facts. He saw no reason to advertise this.  


  
  
His pencil was still sharp enough from his notations on the cost of his bed and board in Ft. Smith and his train ticket to Dardanelle. In neat, economical script he wrote:  


 _“In Dardanelle, Ark. Stephen P. Babcock eloped into Choctaw Nation with Miss Victoria Ross. Possibly Stinky Pete Babbitt?_

  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to jenbachand, my beta.

Wild Rippling Water by snarkypants

Chapter 3

 

Mattie awoke with a start in the blue pre-dawn. Without Victoria thrashing beside her in their bed she slept more soundly and did not wake quite as early as was her wont, making her feel oddly out of sorts.

She sighed and sank back onto her pillow.

She was not one to lie abed and doze while shadows shifted across the room, but these few minutes before dawn were an exception. She had enough time to collect her thoughts and plan what she must accomplish.

Thank God that the cotton was planted and seedlings were up.

Collect eggs from the henhouse.

Milk the cows, feed and turn out the horses, and slop the hogs, because Mr. Harper would not be able to come by this morning.

Try and get her mama up and out of bed, which would be easier said than done.

Make breakfast.

Weed the kitchen garden; it was looking raggedy last night when she collected the spinach for Mr. LaBoeuf’s supper.

Transplant the broccoli, celery and fennel shoots from the cold frame.

Find time to go to Mr. Fisher’s bakery for bread because they were nearly out and she could not keep up with the baking (which often required two hands) in addition to all of her other tasks around the farm. If things continued thus for much longer, what with Victoria and Frank gone and Mama ill, Mattie would have to hire out the laundering.

Plan something for supper that she could cook largely unaided in case Mr. LaBoeuf…

 _Mr. LaBoeuf._

She had thought for years that she remembered precisely what LaBoeuf had looked like, but her memory had failed her in many particulars. While she had remembered his smug grin and his cowlick she had lost the finer details, such as the dimple in his chin and the vivid summer blue of his eyes. Accustomed as she was to the muted palette of the Rosses his brightness drew the eye; she would have to watch herself to make sure she was not staring at the poor man.

Her Grandmother Ross had used to say, “A dimple in the chin, the devil within,” but over the years Mattie had found this to be unreliable at best. And really, with so many men wearing beards, it was often difficult to say for certain…

She realized that she was stroking her throat with the bound end of her braid, like a paintbrush, and she blushed even though no one was there to see.

It was time for her to be up anyway; she tossed the end of her braid over her shoulder and got out of bed.

She washed her face and cleaned her teeth and then began the struggle to button herself into her Emancipation Waist; she could not begin to imagine the trial of hooking herself into a corset alone and one-handed. Her gowns and blouses were all made to button up the front, which afforded her a measure of autonomy she would not have otherwise.

Mattie dressed herself in a simple gown of flower-sprigged cotton with a high neck. It was several years old, and had in fact once been a church dress, made for a bustle, but Mattie had Mama take in the excess fabric as soon as it was old and worn enough to be used as a work dress.  As long as she could dress herself and her clothes were not so very unfashionable as to elicit comment she was content.

If only she could deal with her hair on her own grooming might be much simpler. What a pity modern decency meant that a woman could not cut her hair into a short cap of curls like the women of ancient Greece had, if the statues were accurate.

Her twice-slept-on braid must suffice for one more day; she smoothed it as best she could with a brush before she pinned it up. She still resembled a porcupine, though, with strands and ends waving all over her head.

She emptied her night-jar into the privy, rinsed it with a solution of chloride of lime and set it in the sunshine to dry.

When she went in to wake her, she found that Mama was still poorly, and Mattie had to take several deep breaths to suppress her impatience. “Mama, I will need you today.”

“I will try, Mattie,” her mother said in a wispy voice. She covered her eyes with the crook of her elbow, which often augured ill, and Mattie left the room, closing the door behind her.

Mattie went out to the barn to tend to the animals, and from there went to her quick, cold breakfast of rolled oats, milk and dried peaches.

Midmorning found her in the garden, when she looked up from her trowel to see little Lydia Daggett standing in the yard. “Lydia, for heaven’s sake, did you walk all the way out here on your own?”

“No, Miss Mattie, Jonas came part of the way with me, but I wanted to come the rest of the way all by myself. Mama sent me to ask you and Missus Ross over to supper tonight,” she said, the gaps where her front teeth once sat causing her to lisp a little.

“We may have company tonight, Lydia, but thank you.”

The child’s round face fell. “But Mama invited your gentleman friend, too.”

Mattie paused. “Oh. Well, then, I can accept for myself, but my Mama is unwell.”

Lydia nodded as if this was expected. “Is he your beau?” she asked, wrinkling her nose in the sunlight.

“That is an impertinent question, Lydia,” Mattie said, tugging on an especially tenacious strand of bindweed.

“Oh,” Lydia said. She remained where she stood, switching her short skirts back and forth expectantly. Her boots were covered with a patina of dust from her walk. “Papa says he is not your beau, but Mama thinks he is.”

Mattie exhaled through her nose and released the weed. “He is not my beau. Would you like some lemonade before you set out for home?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Lydia said, nodding and setting her bright pigtails to bobbing.

 

\---------------

 

Telegram sent:

 _Dardanelle, Ark, April 17 th 1885_

 _To: Captain McMurry, Ranger Coy. B, Wichita Falls, Tex_

 _Requesting particulars Pete Babbitt_

 _Possible sighting Ark_

 _LaBoeuf_

After sending his telegram LaBoeuf amused himself for a time by walking quayside along Front Street and watching the ferry as it went back and forth, carrying wagons and livestock and people. He had grown up in a river town, and even though the Guadalupe River was not quite the trade route the Arkansas River was he felt at home.

He made his way to the sheriff’s office and introduced himself to the deputy in charge as a fellow lawman. He enquired about Stephen Babcock, who seemed to have steered clear of the law while in Dardanelle.

Although Deputy MacDonald had looked askance at LaBoeuf at first (due very possibly to his buckskins, but he would not tell Mattie that), after a few minutes of swapping ‘war stories’ the two men were largely at ease with each other. LaBoeuf spent a pleasant morning with the deputy drinking coffee, each man good-naturedly one-upping the other’s tales of criminal idiocy.

“How long you in town for, LaBoeuf?” MacDonald asked; he was a young, gangly fellow with black hair and a lazy eye.

“Not long; I am awaiting a telegram from my captain before I set out, so possibly tomorrow or Sunday.”

MacDonald nodded. “Well. If you hear a set-to tonight I do hope you will come to our aid here. They are bringing Dick Wallace in from Danville today, and I fear there will be a mob.”

“Who is Dick Wallace?”

“A local boy; he got liquored up and stabbed his best friend to death while they were out coon hunting, but he does not seem to remember it. The dead man, Harry Fogarty, had just gotten married, so the townsfolk are pretty riled about it. We have been keeping him in Danville, waiting for tempers to settle, but the judge wants him back in Dardanelle now.”

LaBoeuf shook his head. “That is a hard thing; it could turn ugly, then.”

“We do not mean to let the mob hang him. He deserves a day in court. I feel badly for Wallace. He does not seem to care whether he lives or dies; he is just that tore up about it.”

“Could it be an act, to garner sympathy?”

“If it is an act, it is a good one. He was either insensible or weeping every time I saw him.” MacDonald sucked on one of his teeth, shaking his head.

“Well, I do not know what my day holds, but if I am in town I will keep an ear out.”

“That will be appreciated, sir.”

“The Texas Rangers do have a reputation to uphold, Deputy.”

From outside LaBoeuf heard a child’s piping voice, calling, “Is Mr. LaBoeuf there?”

MacDonald looked up and called out, “He is here.”

A boy thundered into the office. He was about ten years old, with a shock of gingery-blond hair. “My Mama wants you to come to supper tonight.”

“I am busy tonight, Jonas,” MacDonald drawled, “But you tell Mrs. Daggett I said thank you.”

The child stopped, nonplussed. “My Mama said to ask Mr. LaBoeuf, not you,” he said.

“I know it,” MacDonald said, grinning.

“Are _you_ him?” Jonas asked LaBoeuf.

“Yes, I am. And I accept the gracious invitation.”

The boy sighed, clearly considering himself much put-upon. “Be there at six.” With this, he turned and stomped out.

“Be _where_ at six?” LaBoeuf called after him.

“At our house,” Jonas called back, as if there could be no other answer to this question.

“How about that,” MacDonald said. “I lived here my whole life and I never rated supper at Lawyer Daggett’s.”

“I did not expect it myself. I have some acquaintance with the Ross family, but they are not able to entertain much company at present.”

MacDonald nodded, but then his eyes narrowed and he scowled a bit. “Here, now, you are not sparking Miss Victoria, are you? That would not go down so well around here.”

“I am not sparking Miss Victoria; of that you may be certain,” LaBoeuf said.

“Well, then,” MacDonald said, somewhat mollified. “That girl is a daisy.”

LaBoeuf did not care to inform the deputy that his ‘daisy’ had run off with another man; that would come out soon enough, small towns being what they were. The business with Dick Wallace must have drawn everyone’s attention for the time being.

“How might I find Lawyer Daggett’s place?”

“We are on First Street now; get on Second Street and head downriver. If you pass the First Baptist Church you have gone too far. It is a great, white clapboard house, and he has his shingle out front.”

LaBoeuf extended his hand to the deputy. “Thank you, Deputy MacDonald; I will listen for trouble tonight, and I will help you if I can.”

“I could not ask for more,” MacDonald said.

 

\-------------

 

In the end, Mattie decided to hitch up her little runabout gig to drive Lydia home, and then drop by Mr. Fisher’s bakery while she was in town.

It was a fine day for driving. The sky looked like rain, which would put any farmer in a good mood provided it was the right time of year. The air was still and growing oppressive, so riding behind a trotting horse was an excellent way to cool off, and if it did rain Mattie could put the top up.

Mattie’s horse Opal, a flea-bitten grey mare, was good-natured and docile, so Mattie did not have to struggle to keep the vehicle going at a safe, easy pace. Since she had only the one hand to hold the reins and steer she was very cautious, more for Lydia’s safety than her own; she had been tipped into the ditch more times than she cared to recount back when she was learning to drive **.**

From the time Mattie poured her a glass of lemonade until they were in town Lydia kept up an endless stream of chatter, about her older brother Jonas, Baby Francis, the kittens living in the barn, and her mama’s new ball gown from Memphis. She chirpily admired Opal, Mattie’s straw bonnet, and the bounciness of the springs on the runabout. Lydia was an amiable companion, but not a restful one.

When they drove in view of a well set up man wearing buckskins and fringes and a large, outlandishly blocked hat, Lydia commented, loudly enough to be heard all the way over in Russellville, “That is a strange man.”

“That is my friend, Mr. LaBoeuf. He is not strange at all.”

Lydia regarded LaBoeuf with worried eyes. “He is _dressed_ strangely,” she said.

Mattie bit her lip against a smile. “That is how people dress in his state.”

“Oh,” Lydia said.

“Many people think that I look strange, Lydia.”

The girl scrunched up her face, more with genuine confusion than loyalty. “Why?”

“Because I only have one arm,” Mattie said.

“Oh. But that is just how you _are_ , Miss Mattie,” Lydia said.

“That is true.”

Lydia nodded sagely, trying to square up all of this new information.

They overtook LaBoeuf, who was walking in the same direction, and Mattie reined Opal to a halt. “Good afternoon, Mr. LaBoeuf,” Mattie said.

“Good day, ladies,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.

“He looks nicer up close,” Lydia said in a stage whisper from the corner of her mouth.

“Mr. LaBoeuf, this little chatterbox is Miss Lydia Daggett,” Mattie said.

“How are you, Miss Lydia? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“I am well, thank you,” Lydia said, like the well-brought-up child she often forgot to be, folding her little hands in her lap.

“Can I drop you somewhere, Mr. LaBoeuf? I am taking Lydia home and then I must visit the bakery, but after that I am free.”

“Well, I was on my way to scout out Daggett’s house so I will be sure to find it in good time tonight.”

“Do you care to join us, then?” Mattie asked.

“I would like that,” he said, and climbed up, angling his body so he did not crowd Lydia. This also meant that he had to brace his arm on the back of the seat, which Mattie pretended not to notice for the present.

She liked particularly that he did not reach for the reins, which is what her brother would have done.

Mattie clucked to Opal, and said “Drive on,” and the horse resumed her progress.

“Miss Mattie said that you are not her beau,” Lydia said.

“ _Lydia_ —” Mattie began, blushing furiously.

LaBoeuf cleared his throat. “That is a thing for grownups to talk about.”

“Oh,” Lydia said, as unembarrassed as only a child could be. “Well, she is nice,” she said, obviously determined to put in a good word.

“Thank you, Lydia,” Mattie said in a tight voice.

Lydia’s innate sense of fair play demanded that she continue: “But she only has one arm.”

“I had noticed as much,” LaBoeuf said gravely. “What is your mother planning to serve for supper, Miss Lydia?”

“I do not know,” she said. “But there _is_ mince pie.” She grinned widely at him.

LaBoeuf grinned back. “I do hope that there might be a goose, with lots of sauce,” he said. “Since Miss Mattie so enjoys serving sauce for a gander.”

Mattie sniffed at him, and LaBoeuf laughed.

“I believe it will rain today,” Mattie said. “When was the last time you saw rain in that sere state of yours, Mr. LaBoeuf?”

“To which state do you now refer: my home state or my unmarried state?” he teased her over the top of Lydia’s head.

“I refer to your home state, of course. I would hardly presume to comment on your unmarried state, as I am resident there myself,” she said primly.

LaBoeuf appeared about to retort when Mattie halted the gig in front of a large, fine white house, built in the Greek pillared style of some of the fine old houses LaBoeuf had seen in Virginia.

“We are home,” Lydia sang, and began to scramble from the gig, but LaBoeuf beat her to the ground and handed her down.

“There you go, miss,” he said.

“Good-bye, Miss Mattie, good-bye, Mr. LaBoeuf. I think you are not so strange after all,” Lydia said.

He touched his hat brim and climbed back into the gig, returning his arm to the seat back. “Do all young girls today have such pert opinions, or is it just the ones from Dardanelle?”

Mattie looked over her shoulder at his arm and back up at his face. He returned her glance, all innocence, and she cleared her throat loudly, looking back at his arm. “Unless you want it all over town that we are sweethearts you should move your arm, sir,” she snapped.

“Yes, ma’am.” He complied, albeit more slowly than she would have liked. “I do beg your pardon; this shoulder still pains me when rain is coming on,” he said. He shrugged and rotated the shoulder, wincing a bit.

“Oh, I am sorry,” Mattie said, contrite. “I did not think...”

“Do not trouble yourself; only a cad would put his comfort before a lady’s reputation.”

Well. Did she not feel just like a fussy old maid now? Mattie chirruped at Opal to get her going again, turning easily at the corner to return back in the direction of the bakery.

“I did not expect a man of Mr. Daggett’s age to have such a young family,” LaBoeuf said.

“I have heard him say that an attorney should not marry until his practice is well-established.”

He nodded. “That is what I call prudent.” He looked past the horse to the street ahead. “I have put off marriage for similar reasons, but I believe the time has come for me to press forward.”

She looked her confusion at him before returning her attention to the horse. “Oh?”

“You disagree?”

“I do not doubt you; I have simply not thought about a subject that has so little to do with me.”

He shrugged and continued. “I have always lived within my means. The prizes I have taken enabled me to save funds sufficient to purchase land and build a modest, comfortable house.”

“How nice for you,” she said with some asperity, hoping that he might take her hint.

“My habits, interests and demeanor are conducive to a satisfying family life.”

Mattie sighed.

He carried on, seemingly oblivious to her discomfort. “This peripatetic lifestyle is grown wearisome. My company rides into one sorry, dusty little encampment and before we have even met the populace we pull stakes and move further west, to wherever the rails go.” He shook his head. “And it does surely stick in my craw to ride at Jay Gould’s say-so, protecting his millions; if I wanted to be a Pinkerton I would have become one.”

“You would abandon your steadfast fellow Rangers for a woman?”

“Not just _any_ woman; I am far too particular for that. I have little doubt, though, that I will find a sensible, respectable woman for my wife, my helpmeet and my dearest friend.”

“ _Beauty_ must figure into your equation somewhere, of course, Mr. LaBoeuf,” she said mockingly.

“Yes, that is true; I must find her beautiful,” he said, nodding his agreement. “You make an excellent point.”

It was a tiny, deadly little sting, like a fishhook in the fingertip. There was no way to pull it out, though; she must push it through.

She swallowed. “Well. I wish you happy.”

“I aim to be,” he said in a mild tone of voice.

“What occupation would you take up, if you left the Rangers?”

“I do not know.” This did not seem to concern him. “That would depend on where I settled, I suppose. They want lawmen out west, places like Silver City and Tucson and Reno.”

“This could well be your last trip through Arkansas for some time, then,” she said.

“That is possible; if I went west I would have no reason to come any further east than San Antone, and that only rarely.”

“Well.” She risked a quick look over at him. “In that case I am very glad you decided to pay a visit.”

His smile was bright with the warmth of friendship, and she could not help it; she glowed.  “So am I,” he said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreaded (by me) supper party! Is anyone still reading this thing? So sorry for the delay, but I wrote myself into a corner, and have been trying to pry myself out ever since!

Wild Rippling Water by snarkypants

Chapter 4

A great snake of lightning crackled to the west, followed by a salvo of thunder like the Federal artillery.  The rain that threatened all afternoon burst upon them, beautiful and terrible as an army with banners.

Mattie yelped and reined Opal to a halt, looping the reins around a bar on the dash board.  “Help me get the top up,” she said.  “No, no, pull that hinge there, or you will get such a pinch,” she directed, pointing.

“Here?” LaBoeuf asked, tugging that hinge into place.  He heard a metallic clicking, felt the metal snap into position, blocking the deluge.

Mattie tugged off her glove by pulling at the fingertips with her teeth, and then reached forward, holding out her hand and smiling with satisfaction as her palm filled.  “Oh, we do need it, every drop.”  A gust of cool air hit them, and Mattie laughed out loud.  She turned to beam at him, before looking back at the water she held cupped in her hand.

She was a plain, obstinate girl, but her happiness was infectious.  He grinned, too, just because it was raining and he was alone with a young lady, and he could not remember the last time either of those things had happened.

Mattie tipped the water from her hand, wiping her palm on her skirt.  She struggled for a few moments to work her still-damp hand back into her driving glove, so LaBoeuf gestured toward the reins.  “May I drive?” he asked.  “I would offer to help you with your glove, but I think you would just rebuke me for being forward.”

She fought for a bit longer, and then sighed, dropping her hand, partially gloved, to her lap.  “Please do,” she said.  “The bakery is ahead in the next block.”

Thunder boomed overhead again and Opal startled, but LaBoeuf held firm to the reins.  The mare flicked her ears back towards him, as if sensing the change in leadership, but she responded to his direction and walked on.

Mattie pointed out the bakery to him, and he drove them up alongside the shop.  She craned her neck, looking in the windows, which had remained largely clear despite the contrast between the cool rain without and the heat within. 

“I do not suppose that I could convince you to remain out here with Opal, could I?” she asked, turning to look up at him with such an entreating expression that it put him immediately on his guard.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Not a thing, aside from every gossip in Yell County being at this moment in Fisher’s.”

“Hm,” LaBoeuf said.  “I do not recall you being so troubled by gossip before.”

“Gossip does not trouble me, Mr. LaBoeuf, but if I may somehow save all parties some annoyance I will do it.”

“Sounds like ‘troubled’ to me,” he said, allowing the ghost of a smile to creep onto his face.

“And that is easy for you to say,” she said.  “For I live here and you do not.  You may well be content to stir up a tempest in a teapot, knowing that you can just ride away tomorrow, but I do not have that luxury.”

“It may surprise you to learn that I do not ride from pillar to post compromising the reputations of young ladies.”

“Well, it would be one thing if—” she began, and then stopped herself, pressing her lips into a tight, unyielding line.

“If what?” he asked.  When she did not immediately answer, he prodded a little.  “If what, Miss Ross?”

“If Victoria were safe and sound and everything were as it ought to be, of course,” she said, looking so unhappy that he did not have the heart to tease her any longer.

“I will wait for you out here,” he said.

Mattie nodded, and swung herself down to the ground, clearly unused to waiting for a man to help her descend. She climbed the steps to the covered walkway with a quick gait and a firmly planted foot.  Here was no frivolous, enervated miss, he thought, smiling to himself.  He kept his gaze on her as she went into the baker’s. 

* * *

 

Mattie entered Mr. Fisher’s establishment with every intention of purchasing a loaf of bread and departing unnoticed, but it would not go like that.

“Why, Miss Mattie, I have not seen you for an age,” Mr. Fisher said.

“Hello, Mr. Fisher.  I would like a loaf of brown bread, please.”

“Of course.  How is everyone at home these days?”

“About as well as can be expected, thank you,” she said.

“You should never have driven that light-colored horse out into this storm, Mattie Ross,” Mrs. Carroll said in her booming voice, the bane of every Presbyterian choir leader in Dardanelle since time immemorial.  “Everyone knows that they draw lightning.”  She shook her finger in Mattie’s direction.

Mattie did not sigh, but it was a near thing.  “That is a supersti—” she began, but when Mrs. Carroll gasped as if Mattie stuck her with a pin everyone in the bakery stopped talking.

“Why, whoever is that man out there in your cart?” Mrs. Carroll asked, pointing.

Naturally, every head in the store swiveled to look out the window to where LaBoeuf sat in the gig.  At that moment, providentially, he appeared to be gazing off into the distance toward Mount Nebo, only partially visible under a shroud of clouds.

Mattie exhaled slowly.  “He is Mr. LaBoeuf, a family friend from Texas.”

Mrs. Carroll’s eyebrows went up.  “ _Texas_.  Well.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mattie said.

“Well,” Mrs. Carroll said again, peering at LaBoeuf with an even greater interest.  “What is his profession?”

“He is a lawman, Mrs. Carroll,” Mattie said.  Mr. Fisher handed her the wrapped loaf.  “Put it to our account, please, Mr. Fisher.”

The baker nodded and made some notes in his ledger.

As Mattie moved toward the door Mrs. Carroll stopped her with a hand on her arm.  “Now, miss, you be sweet to that young man.  Do not put him off with your headstrong ways, and see if he comes up to scratch.”

Years ago, Mattie had scolded Little Frank after church for snickering when Mrs. Carroll boomed out the hymn: “It is finished! Oh, what pleasure/Do these precious words accord!” She had chuckled about it later, privately, though, so this, then, must be the punishment for her misdeed.  “Yes, Mrs. Carroll,” she said, dull as a mushroom, and strode out of the bakery.

* * *

LaBoeuf kept Opal standing even after Mattie seated herself.

“This evening I will walk back to your home and convey you to Daggett’s in time for supper,” he said.  The rain pattered on the cover overhead. 

“What if it is still raining?”

“I will not melt; the rain is pleasant to me. So I will see you after five o’clock.”

“You will get your nice suit all wet and muddy.  I can certainly contrive to get myself to Lawyer Daggett’s, to say nothing of collecting _you_ from Mrs. Hayden’s house.”

He shook his head at her.  “No.  I would be easier if you did not go out alone tonight.”

Mattie could almost feel her hackles rising.  “Oh, you would, would you?  That is high-handed, even for you.”

“There could be some trouble in town, and you should have an escort.”

“An escort, in Dardanelle?”  She narrowed her eyes at him.  “What sort of trouble?”

“There may be a mob to hang a fellow named Dick Wallace when the sheriff brings him to the calaboose.”

She shrugged.  “It is naught to do with me.”

“In my experience mobs are not particular.”

“Do you have so much experience with mobs?”

He grinned at her, all superiority and self-satisfaction.  “Have you heard the saying, ‘one riot, one Ranger’?”

“No.”

“No?  Oh.  Well.”  He seemed to deflate a little.  “I assure you, it is well known in Texas.”

“Coming from a lawless place is nothing to boast of, Mr. LaBoeuf.”

“Now, I would wager that Texas is no more lawless than Arkansas when figured per capita. At any rate--”

“Wagering, _really_ ,” Mattie muttered, sniffing.

LaBoeuf continued over her.  “As I said, at any rate, I think we can both agree that the Indian Territories are more lawless than Texas and Arkansas combined.”

“They would not be, if all of your Texas criminals would _remain_ in Texas; the Choctaw I have met have all been decent sorts.”

LaBoeuf sighed.  “I can see that you are as set in your opinions as ever and will not be swayed.”

“You are correct.  Perhaps I could wait at Mrs. Hayden’s while you tidy up, and then you can drive me home and be at ease there while I dress.  How would that serve?”

“You would enter a _boarding house_ with me, but not the baker’s.  I find that very strange.”

“Oh.  Mrs. Hayden keeps a very respectable house, so no one would think ill of it.”

“An unmarried girl and a bachelor, going into a boarding house together in the afternoon without a chaperone, and no one would think _ill_ of it?”  His voice rose in indignation.

“Do not take that tone with me. You were easy enough with entering the very _room_ of an unmarried girl in Fort Smith.”

“You were little more than a child then, and I had been in communication with your mother.”

“I was grown enough for you to threaten to kiss me.”

LaBoeuf’s face flushed to a deep red.  “I assure you, if I had known then what I know now—” he began, but then thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake.  What if I were to just sit on Mrs. Hayden’s porch and wait for you there?  That way you do not spend the day walking all over town and I do not offend your sense of propriety.”

“If this is Arkansas ‘propriety’, no wonder Babcock made free with your sister,” LaBoeuf muttered, and she glared at him.  “All right.  If that is what you wish to do, you can wait for me there.”

* * *

LaBoeuf came downstairs to find Mattie sitting with his landlady and a guest on the porch.  It was a cool, pleasant spot, out of the rain.  The guest, a drummer with a plaid sack suit and a Yankee accent, kept grinning at Mattie, displaying a rack of tobacco-stained teeth. 

“Well, miss, I would be happy to bring a plow out to your place so I can demonstrate all of the benefits to your menfolk,” he was saying.  “If you would give me your direction—”

“How is your product an improvement over Mr. Wilson’s plow?”

“Oh, miss, someone has taken sore advantage of you with that old thing.  Why, most of my customers would happily string old Wilson up if he dared set foot on their land.  Which he does not, no, indeed, miss, he does not.”  He grinned again, and LaBoeuf could see dark leaves of tobacco packed into his gums. 

She looked down her nose at him. “We have been pleased enough with ours,” she said.

“You would be even more pleased with mine.  Almost as pleased as I am to pass the time with such a _beautiful_ young lady.”  He was sure laying it on thick.

“Do your customers appreciate that sort of fresh talk, for I assure you that I do not,” she said testily, but it seemed merely to encourage the drummer, who leered at her.

LaBoeuf cleared his throat from the doorway.  “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Ross,” he said.

“Not at all; I have been visiting with Mrs. Hayden and Mister …” She paused, and the drummer stood, presenting his hand to LaBoeuf.

“Downey. I am M. K. Downey of the Harrison Plough Manufactory.”

LaBoeuf shook the man’s hand, squeezing perhaps a little harder than necessary.  “I am Sergeant LaBoeuf of the Texas Rangers.”

“Pleased ta meetcha,” Downey said.  “A Texas Ranger, you say.”

“Yes, indeed.”  LaBoeuf turned his attention to Mrs. Hayden.  “Miss Ross and I have a supper engagement tonight, ma’am, so do not expect me at your table.”

“Oh, how nice.  You young people have a lovely evening,” Mrs. Hayden said.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Mattie said, gathering up her wrapped loaf.  “Now is a good time to go; the rain is stopped.”

LaBoeuf made a point of taking the package from Mattie and offering his other elbow to her.  She blinked but took his arm.

When they were seated in the gig and Mattie had the reins in hand, LaBoeuf said, “That fellow sure seemed taken with you.”

Mattie made a dismissive noise.  “I have been dealing with drummers and tradesmen for years.  The greater fools among them think that I trade greenback dollars for Spanish coin.”  She clucked to Opal and they drove on.

“Oh.”  LaBoeuf said.  “So you were genuinely interested in his plows.”

“Not especially.  If he has nothing to offer but slander and flattery his product is not worth the trouble.”

“Oh,” LaBoeuf said again.  “Well, that is very sensible of you.”

Mattie chortled, and LaBoeuf clenched his teeth.  After tolerating that ridiculous drummer’s blandishments she was laughing at _him_?

“You need not sound so surprised,” she said.  “It is insulting.”

“You can get all the flattery you want back there,” he said.

“That is certainly true.  That, and much more, I suspect.”

* * *

Mama had spent an uncommonly busy afternoon, sponging and pressing Mattie’s best dress, even tacking on a lace collar and cuff salvaged from one of Mama’s old gowns.  That only one of those cuffs was still useable made it perfect for Mattie’s dress, since her left sleeve would be tacked up and therefore unseen.  In the spirit of thrift Mattie had insisted that the gown be made up with the sleeve pieced entire, since her best dress might be passed on to someone else someday, perhaps to Victoria, who would need a left sleeve.

Mama combed corn starch through her hair, followed by some orange blossom water, and then she brushed it out until it shone.  She dressed it in a twist that she must have seen in The Delineator, frizzling some of the ends into a little false fringe in the front.

Mattie could not have replicated it even before her adventures in the Winding Stairs.  Victoria at her most whimsical never would have attempted it, since Mattie would not have sat still for that long.  But this was the first thing Mama had been interested in for some time, and Mattie’s fear of looking silly must be secondary.

“You leave everything to me, Mattie,” Mama said, around the hairpins in her mouth.  Her hands trembled, and Mattie wondered if she had taken her chloral that afternoon.  “No one can say I have done poorly by my girls; no, they cannot say that,” she added, almost to herself.

“No one says that, Mama,” Mattie said, trying to soothe her.

Mama stabbed the last pin into the mass of Mattie’s hair, locking it firmly in place.  “Victoria should be here—” she said, and broke off with a sob. 

“She will be. Frank will bring her home.”  Mattie patted her mother’s arm.

“Oh, Mattie, she is ruined.  What would your papa say?”

 “He would never blame you.”

Mama walked away sniffling and then returned with bright eyes.   “You should wear your coral earbobs,” Mama said after clearing her throat.  “They bring out the pink in your cheeks.”

“I will, Mama.”  The earbobs had been left to her by her grandmother Ross.  She kept them in a little box with her father’s remaining gold piece.  Mattie worked the hooks through her earlobes and tossed her head experimentally, enjoying the light glinting from the pink teardrop beads and the little clicking noises they made.

“Now wash, and you may use my orange blossom talcum powder.  Call me when you are ready for your corset and gown. Whatever you do, do not _sweat_.” 

* * *

LaBoeuf was dozing in the parlor with his chin on his chest and his hands clasped over his belly when Mattie entered the room.  “Mr. LaBoeuf,” she said, “wake up.  It is time to go.”

He started, blinking in the gloom, and then looked at her.  His gaze swept from her feet to her hair, lingering a bit at her bodice.  “You look—” he began before he remembered himself.  “I mean, your dress is pretty and it suits you well.”  It was; the dress was a soft sage green poplin, trimmed with dull bronze ribbons and facings and a bit of lace.

“Oh.  Thank you,” she said.  Her mother bustled into the room, carrying Mattie’s shawl and glove.  Mama had purloined one of Victoria’s more fashionable bonnets for the occasion, which under ordinary circumstances would have resulted in near-endless cries of ill-use followed by sulking.  Mattie cared little for Victoria’s presumed indignation at the moment, as apparently did Mama.

Once Mattie was properly hatted and shawled and gloved, LaBoeuf stood and turned to Mattie’s mother.  “Ma’am, I will take good care of her, and will return her home safe at a decent hour.”

“Thank you, Mr. LaBoeuf.  Enjoy yourself, my dear girl.”

“I will, Mama.  Good night.”

Mr. LaBoeuf assisted her into the gig.  “I mean to drive us,” he said, “if only to spare your fine glove.”

“That is all right,” Mattie said.  She draped a cloth over her lap to protect her dress from mud and water kicked up by Opal’s hooves, and passed the other end so LaBoeuf might cover his trousers as well.

He urged the horse forward, and they were on their way.  The sky above the trees and hills was a brilliant orange and intensified the vivid greens and blacks of the freshly-soaked fields.  LaBoeuf inhaled deeply and exhaled.  “Fine weather for a drive,” he said.

“It is.  Despite all of the extra work it is my favorite time of year.”

LaBoeuf nodded.  “Are you at all fond of reading the newspapers?”

“Very much so.  We have a fine paper here in town.”

“What do you think of our president, ‘Grover the Good’?”

“He is a Democrat, and a Presbyterian, so I expect good things.”

“Even after that unpleasant business about Mrs. Halpin’s son?”

She gave him an indignant look and sniffed.  “What a subject to bring up with an unmarried lady.  Are there so few ladies in Texas that you are unaccustomed to the rules of polite conversation?”

He appeared to flush, although it could have been a trick of the waning sunlight.  He tucked his chin down and cleared his throat.  “I do apologize; I was curious to see what a good Presbyterian like yourself might make of our President Cleveland.”

“I am nothing like a model of Presbyterian behavior.  I have killed a man.”

LaBoeuf laughed out loud.  “Well, when you put it that way…”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I was disappointed to hear of it, though, and I do pity that poor boy.  Can you imagine, everyone in the country now knowing the sordid details of one’s birth and infamous mother?”

“I suppose that would be a painful cross to bear,” he said.

“As to Mr. Cleveland, perhaps New York Presbyterians conduct themselves differently, although we ‘all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God’.”  She paused.  “By all reports he has done rightly by the child, and he did not dissemble when the scandal was revealed, so in that at least his conduct was honorable.  What do you think of him?”

LaBoeuf thought a minute.  “I shall wait and see.  I prefer him to Blaine, which is faint praise.”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Mattie said.  “I had high hopes for President Garfield, but Mr. Blaine, although his friend, seems to be cut from an entirely different sort of cloth, leaving Mr. Cleveland as the only choice.”  She sighed.  “It is a nuisance, sometimes, being a woman.  I must wait for Little Frank to be old enough to vote for the interests of our property.”

LaBoeuf kept his gaze on the road ahead.  “You might marry.”

Mattie smirked.  “I might also find El Dorado, but I do not care to ‘entertain hypotheticals’,” she said.

“Is it so unlikely?” he asked.

“Do you enjoy teasing me over my lack of prospects?  I do not wish to rebuke you so close on the heels of my last scolding, but I shall if necessary.”

He sighed as though she were being excessively tiresome.  “It is not outside the bounds of possibility that you should marry if you wish it, and I would not suggest otherwise.”  He cleared his throat.  “We will have a good showing of stars tonight, since the clouds have moved on.”

“I suppose we will,” Mattie said in a diffident voice, looking intently at something beyond the horse’s ears.

LaBoeuf looked over at her.  “What is wrong?”

“I am thinking about my sister.  Do not mistake me: I am still angry with her.  But I picture her cold and hungry and alone and soaked with rain.”

“Well.  It is possible, but just as likely that she is ensconced somewhere warm with Babcock.  Neither possibility can be of much comfort, I know.”

Mattie pursed her lips.  “I have little doubt that he has gotten what he wanted from her.  Her virtue would be worth little to him after the fact, but the horse she took with her was a fine animal.”  She sighed.  “No, I fear that he will abandon her when she grows tiresome, and he will take the horse to sell, leaving her penniless and friendless and prey to whatever should find her next.”

LaBoeuf nodded.  “In any case, I fear that there is little to do but wait for news.” The sun was sinking lower in the sky, making Mount Nebo look as though it were wreathed in fire.  “That is a sight to see,” LaBoeuf said.

“It is.  We have a little summerhouse there and—” Mattie gasped, covering her mouth.

“What is it?”

“We must go to Mount Nebo!”

“We?  _Tonight_?”

“No, no, not tonight.  But tomorrow!  Please say you will come.  I should be so grateful of your company.”

“Hold on.  How long of a trip would this be?”

“Just an hour or two.  They could have gone there, Mr. LaBoeuf.  She might be there still.”

“Let us speak of it tomorrow.  For now, try to enjoy the evening.  I know I will.”

* * *

As fine as the Daggett’s house appeared it was but a setting for its jewel-like mistress.  Mrs. Daggett was a handsome woman of perhaps thirty years, with elaborately dressed golden hair and lovely, regular features.  She wore a frothy reception gown of deep blue silk, and gold earbobs glistened at her ears.  She greeted Mattie warmly and bade LaBoeuf a gracious welcome to her home.

LaBoeuf heard a small scuffling upstairs, and looked up to see little Lydia waving at them through the stair rails.  “Hello,” she called in a loud whisper.

Mrs. Daggett turned to look up at her daughter and Lydia scampered back into the nursery.

“You made quite an impression on my children today, Mr. LaBoeuf.  They could speak of nothing but the Texas Ranger.”  She led them into the parlor.  “Mr. Daggett will join us presently, but allow me to introduce you to our other guests.”

Judge Stewart, a tall, thin, ascetic man with hawk-like features and whiskey blossoms on his sunken cheeks, greeted them gravely.  Mrs. Stewart was equally thin, but the resemblance ended there; her pale face bloomed with paint instead of spirits, and her eyes sparkled with humor behind her _pince-nez_ spectacles.

“Mr. LaBoeuf, this is Lorenzo Perry, Mr. Daggett’s law clerk,” Mrs. Daggett said, indicating a slight, round-shouldered man with scraggly moustaches and a face like a bowl of clabber, particularly when he bent over Mattie’s hand in greeting.

“My dear sister Miss Keel is visiting us from Memphis.”  Miss Keel dimpled prettily and smiled.  Although not quite the vision her older sister was, she was well-dressed and moved with a beguiling feminine grace.

“I do hope you will share with us some stories of Texas, Mr. LaBoeuf.  Mr. LaBoeuf is a Texas Ranger,” Mrs. Daggett said, and the other guests made the appropriate noises of interest.

State Representative William Barton and his daughter Alice arrived with Mr. Daggett shortly before a servant rang the bell for supper.  Barton was smooth and dapper, with oleaginous hair and a smile to match.  The girl Alice was a shy fifteen year old, with none of Mattie’s presumed gravitas at that tender age.

The men escorted their supper partners to table.  LaBoeuf had the honor of giving Miss Keel his arm, and the judge thoughtfully switched sides, offering his left arm so he could escort Mattie with the minimum of awkwardness.

The meal was delicious, beginning with oyster soup, followed by a roast goose.  LaBoeuf kept his expression neutral but could not resist stealing a glance at Mattie as Mrs. Daggett carved the bird.  She met his gaze and raised her eyebrows, as though asking, “what of it?” before turning back to the judge.

“What brings you from Texas, Mr. LaBoeuf?” Representative Barton asked.

“I apprehended a criminal in the Indian Territory, and was called to testify in Judge Parker’s court.”

“That was in Fort Smith, though.  Dardanelle is somewhat out of the way, I think you will agree,” Barton said.

“I met Miss Ross and her family some years ago, and passed through to pay my respects since I was nearby.”

“Mr. LaBoeuf was one of the lawmen who joined me in pursuit of my father’s murderer five years ago,” Mattie added.

The Stewarts, the Daggetts and Perry continued to enjoy their goose and their rice croquettes and Irish potatoes, but the others seemed to both recoil and lean forward simultaneously, forks and knives temporarily forgotten in their hands.

“ _You_ pursued the man?” Miss Keel asked.  Alice Barton’s mouth gaped until she remembered herself, then watched the adults for cues on how to react.

“Yes, indeed,” Mattie replied, matter-of-fact.  “I hired the Federal Marshal and we went in pursuit of Tom Chaney.  We were then joined by Mr. LaBoeuf, who sought Chaney for another crime.”

“Despite my initial misgivings and protestations, Miss Ross was most heroic out there,” LaBoeuf said.

“No more than yourself,” Mattie protested.  “Mr. LaBoeuf landed a 400 foot shot with his Sharps Carbine to save the Marshal from a cowardly ambuscade.”

“And then Miss Ross dispatched Chaney with my Sharps after he broke my skull.”

“And I fell into a pit, where I was bitten by a rattlesnake.  I would have died if my companions had not pulled me to safety and then carried me back to Fort Smith.”

Alice Barton looked across the table at LaBoeuf with undisguised admiration and starry eyes.  “You saved Miss Ross’s life, Mr. LaBoeuf?  That is very romantic.”  She blushed and looked down at her plate as her father gave her a stern look.

Mattie choked on a sip of water.

“I am afraid that it was not romantic at all, Miss Barton,” LaBoeuf said, but not unkindly. “Miss Ross was very ill and very young, and I was sorely wounded.  It was the Federal marshal who did most of the saving, and he was not at all what young ladies might call a romantic figure.”

“No, Miss Barton, he was more of a picaresque figure,” Daggett said, chuckling.

“Mr. Daggett,” Mattie said, protesting.

“A good man, though, certainly,” Daggett said, nodding an apology to Mattie.  He cleared his throat. “He was tall, as I recollect, but stout, with a patch over one eye and a grizzled beard.  He looked a right desperado, and smelled like a distillery.” Mattie identified Mr. Daggett’s storytelling voice as a close cousin to Mr. LaBoeuf’s professorial voice and she clamped her lips together to keep from smiling at the similarity. 

“Oh, were you not frightened to be in the company of such a man, Miss Ross?” Miss Keel asked.

“Not at all. He was over fond of whiskey and bluster, but the nobility of his character was plain to see, despite his rough exterior.  Only someone with foul intent would have cause to fear Marshal Cogburn.”

“Cogburn… he was the fellow who shot all those Wharton boys, was he not?” the judge asked.

“He was,” Mattie said.  “He lost his position over it.”

Judge Stewart harrumphed.  “They should have given him a medal and a prize; those Whartons were all mean as snakes, and twice as devious.”

“I agree, Judge,” Mattie said.  “I saw that Odus Wharton in Judge Parker’s court, and there was no question as to his bad character.”

“What news from Memphis, Miss Keel?” Lorenzo Perry, Daggett’s law clerk, asked, jumping on the heels of Mattie’s words.

Miss Keel blinked at the abrupt change of subject.  “Oh, my, let me see… my friends the Looneys gave the most delightful ball for Mardi Gras.”

“Was it not splendid?” Representative Barton chimed in from his seat next to her.

“Were you there, sir?” Miss Keel asked.

“Indeed I was, but I did not realize until now that our mutual friends neglected to present me to the most charming lady in attendance.  Please do forgive my negligence, Miss Keel.”

 “I am sure no forgiveness is necessary, sir.  You must have any number of people clamoring for your attention at these events.”

“Ah, that is no excuse, miss.  I hope you will allow me to atone for my lack of attention.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

LaBoeuf did not miss the tiny smile shared by Miss Keel and her sister.  He looked across the table at Mattie, to see what she thought of the human drama enacted there, but she appeared to be in a serious discussion with the judge.

LaBoeuf turned to Mrs. Stewart, who gave him a crinkly smile.  “If the Representative is not careful he may find himself with a leg-shackle,” she said, _sotto voce_. 

“I think you may be right, ma’am.”

“Of course I am.  I also suspect _you_ might be in that market yourself.”

LaBoeuf blushed and cleared his throat.  “I hope to be in a position to marry before too long.”

Mrs. Stewart nodded.  “And how does Mrs. Ross fare?”

“I am afraid she is under the weather tonight.”

Mrs. Stewart looked knowingly at him.  “Mary Ross was my dear friend before her husband died.  I remember when Frank brought her here from California.  The most beautiful girl I ever saw, with her black hair and dark eyes.  She grew up wild out west, with little learning to speak of, and none of us knew quite what to make of her at first.  She soon settled down, though, and made for a fine wife and mother.”

“Yes, that certainly appears to be—”

“Her elder daughter is worth two of her.”

LaBoeuf blinked.  “Ma’am?”

“Would you say that you have a dangerous profession?”

“Ah, yes, ma’am, it can be.”

She peered at him through the tiny lenses of her _pince-nez_.  “Well, then.  A decent man in a dangerous line of work would want to ensure that his widow and children thrive after his death, would he not?”

“I, ah…I suppose he would.”

“You must know that the only reason that Mary and the children do not live hand-to-mouth in some wretched hovel is that girl sitting across from us.  Despite Mr. Daggett’s good advice, without Mattie her mother would have lost everything Frank Ross built. You should think on that.”

LaBoeuf’s jaw worked for a moment.  How had he gotten himself into such a conversation?  “Yes, ma’am,” he said and turned his attention to his quail on toast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: Sorry for the extreme delay! Have a Merry Christmas/Solstice/Kwanzaa/Festivus/Holiday season!
> 
> The saying “one riot, one Ranger” actually comes a few years after this time, but I love it, and I think LaBoeuf would, too. LaBoeuf tries to engage Mattie in that age-old game of “Oklahoma Dissing,” because, theoretically, if there’s anything that a Texan and an Arkansan can agree on, it’s that Oklahoma is worse.
> 
> “Chloral” refers to chloral hydrate, which was given commonly to those who, in the parlance of our times, are suffering from insomnia and anxiety. It was the Valium of its day, and also the primary ingredient for slipping someone a “Mickey Finn” or one of Jackie Treehorn’s White Russians.


	5. Chapter 5

Wild Rippling Water  
Chapter 5  
by snarkypants

Just as the Daggetts’ maid was bringing out mince pie and lemon pie, one of Mr. Daggett’s men beckoned to him from outside the dining room. Daggett excused himself and urged his company to avoid Front Street on their journeys home if his return took longer than expected.

LaBoeuf folded his napkin and set it aside. “Ma’am, thank you for your gracious hospitality. I told the sheriff’s deputy I would come to his aid if things turned ugly, so I must beg your pardon. It was my pleasure and honor to meet you and your guests.” He paused. “Miss Ross, I must ask you to please wait for me to return so I might escort you safely home.” Without even waiting for Mattie’s reply, he rose and followed Daggett out of the room, to his study.

“How bad is it?” Daggett was asking the man.

“Those boys are all liquored up and spoiling for a hanging.”

“All right. Thank you, George. If you would like you can head to the kitchen and ask Delia to make you up a plate.”

“Yessir, Mr. Daggett. Thank you.”

Daggett turned to LaBoeuf. “I suppose you will need a firearm, then, unless you have one tucked in your boot there.”

“No sir, not tonight.”

Daggett handed him a shotgun and a handful of shells. “Mattie has extolled your marksmanship so you can surely put this humble instrument to good use.”

“If all goes well I should not need it, but I would rather have it all the same.”

Daggett led him to the same buggy and team of bays LaBoeuf had seen outside Mattie’s house when he first arrived. “I should like to get there sooner rather than later, and I do not care to foot it,” he said.

“Not after that meal.”

Daggett patted his belly. “Marriage is a good thing, Mr. LaBoeuf,” he said, and belched.

LaBoeuf smiled to himself at the older man’s transparent attempts at matchmaking.

 

* * *

 

“Lawyer Daggett, this is not the best place for you tonight,” the sheriff said.

“I have hope that cooler heads will prevail. If not, though, I am well armed.”

The sheriff sighed. “Well, all right. Who is your friend?”

“I am Sergeant LaBoeuf of the Texas Rangers.”

“Sergeant,” the sheriff said. “I am glad to meet you. Deputy McDonald said you might come by.”

LaBoeuf nodded a greeting to the deputy and the other men. “How may I help?”

“I have heard that you Ranger fellows can disperse a mob without so much as firing a weapon. Is that true?”

“Yes, that is always our goal.”

“That is my goal, too. This has gone on long enough, and I do not care to have a blood feud in my town. All I want is to keep the peace.”

LaBoeuf gathered the men around. “Spread yourselves out in front of the calaboose. Keep your muzzles down and your pistols holstered. Keep your chest and your chin up, and the sheriff and I will do the talking. Mr. Daggett, you will keep watch over Wallace. Douse the lights inside. We do not want any sharpshooter taking Wallace out before the judge says so.”

One of the men was looking out the window and yelped, “They are coming!”

The glow of torches confirmed it. LaBoeuf nodded at the sheriff, who led his men out. LaBoeuf brought up the rear, coming to stand next to the sheriff at the middle of the line of men. They concealed their nerves well enough, he thought.

The group heaved into sight and began to shout and chant: “Bring him out! Hang him!”

“May God be with us,” the sheriff muttered.

“Amen,” LaBoeuf said.

 

* * *

 

Daggett heaved himself into his buggy seat and withdrew a pewter flask from his jacket pocket, opened it and passed it to LaBoeuf. “Whew! I am glad that is over!”

LaBoeuf saluted him with the flask and took a swig, relishing the velvety burn of good whiskey. “Thank you,” he croaked, handing the vessel back. “That was thirsty work.”

“I can well imagine. I must say, you are wasted on the Rangers. Even I understood only about three-quarters of your speechifying there. I have never heard the like, and I have gone up against Polk Goudy! You should go before the bar.” Daggett tipped the flask into his mouth.

“I have always preferred a more active sort of profession.”

Daggett harrumphed and took another slug of whiskey. He cleared his throat. “And now I must enquire as to your intentions with our Mattie.”

This was not unexpected. “My intentions, such as they are, are strictly honorable.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“I will not dishonor her. She is a remarkable young lady.”

“Hm. I suppose you could support a family on your wages.”

“I would have to leave the Rangers in order to marry, and I am not prepared to do that just yet.”

Daggett made an impatient sound. “Good God, man, what will it take? You are getting no younger. You have been gunshot and had your head broken and nearly severed your tongue, and those are only the wounds I know about. Get yourself a wife and a family before it is too late.”

LaBoeuf scowled at him and took back the flask, drinking in silence.

Daggett took another tack. “To all reports you are an honorable man, but so was Brutus. What is the situation of your family?”

“I am estranged from my father. Have been since the war.”

“He is a drunk,” Daggett said; it wasn’t a question.

LaBoeuf resisted looking surprised. “He is. As is his wife.”

“Your brother Henry is a respectable man, but your brother Charlie…” Daggett’s voice trailed off, leaving his meaning clear.

“Well. Charlie spent nine months in Point Lookout during the war. He barely survived and ruined his health. He does what he can. I do not like it much, but he is my brother.”

“So which way will you go? The way of the drunkard, or the panderer, or the clerk?”

LaBoeuf bristled. “Since I am well past my first youth, I believe the answer to that question is clear, sir: I will go as I have gone. Like you I am both a Confederate veteran and a man of law. I am a sergeant of Texas Rangers. I have served honorably these many years, and I defy you to find anyone who says otherwise.”

Daggett nodded as though none of it was a surprise. “That is what my man in Texas has reported. I wished to hear it from you. These days a man cannot be too careful with his loved ones.” He took the flask back from LaBoeuf, draining it. “Frank Ross was my dearest friend in the world. I lost everything in the war, so Frank let me live in a cabin on his land for the merest pittance while I recovered my health and read the law. Little Mattie cut her teeth on my books,” he said with a chuckle. “I can never repay his generosity to me. For all intents and purposes, his family is my own, and I will always look after them as best I can. I have failed with Victoria, and to a certain extent with Mattie, but I do wish to see her happy.”

LaBoeuf nodded, some of his annoyance fading. “I understand.”

“Well, I reckon we ought to head back, then,” Daggett said, tucking the empty flask in his vest pocket. “I expect Lorena will be beside herself.”

They entered the house to find the charming tableau of Miss Keel playing the piano as Mr. Barton turned the pages of the music for her. Mrs. Daggett entertained Miss Barton with stereopticon views of the seashore. Mattie held Mrs. Daggett’s sleeping baby against her shoulder. Taken together, it was a scene of perfect domesticity, calculated to charm a single man--or two--into contemplating the pleasures of matrimony.

 

* * *

 

“I hope that you enjoyed your evening,” he said.

“It was very pleasant. The Daggetts are excellent hosts,” Mattie said, although she sounded hesitant.

“What is it?”

“I was glad that you and Mr. Daggett left, as it turned out," Mattie said.

“Why?” he asked, stung.

“Because Mrs. Daggett had meant for there to be dancing after supper. But we were down to two gentlemen for five ladies, so she changed her plans.” She grinned at him.

LaBoeuf tipped his head to the side in confusion. “But there were three men left,” he said, squinting at her.

“Judge Stewart began complaining about his ‘rheumatiz’ as soon as he saw the way the wind was blowing.”

“Ah. Well, that is a pity for I do like to dance. I am very sorry to have missed it.” He looked over at her. “I take it that you do not care for it, though.”

Mattie sighed. “Perhaps if I could somehow steady myself better it would be nicer. Those men who have been coerced into dancing with me in the past often turn me so quickly that they send me crashing into walls and furniture. I do not care to be in that position any longer.”

“It sounds as though you have been badly partnered.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Would that Mr. Perry be one of the men who has treated you in this way?”

She blinked. “Why do you ask me that?”

“He appears to hold you in some disdain. And you him.”

Mattie worried at her lip with her teeth for a moment. “At one time he thought to curry favor with Mr. Daggett by turning me up sweet.”

“He might have had other reasons,” LaBoeuf said, and Mattie gave him an arch look.

“Oh, yes, four hundred and eighty acres full of reasons, by my reckoning. When Mr. Daggett asked me about it I told him that his clerk was too great a fool to live.”

“Ah. That could account for it.”

“Honestly, he has been clerking for six years now; if he had any sense he would have gone before the bar years ago. I could have, and I have not read half as much law as he has.”

“Perhaps you should.” He grinned at her.

“Hm,” she said. “Assuming they would admit me—which I doubt—I do not think I could convince any man to hire me as his lawyer. I do not have the sort of face or demeanor that can entice a man into doing my bidding unless I am holding my bank book. No, I will toil away in my own sphere and make the best of it.”

“You have made the best of it. It is a fine place.”

“All of the credit for that goes to my father. He built the house and the outbuildings, but more than that, he shared it with those who needed it. Even Mr. Daggett lived in a mean little cabin on our land for years. Up until he married Mrs. Daggett.”

“Is that not why a man seeks to marry? To secure the heart of a lady who will make him a happy and comfortable home? I will admit, the idea has merit. Your home makes my canvas tent on the prairie a sad prospect, indeed.”

“You live in tents? I thought you must be in barracks at least.”

“Barracks take time to construct, and the lumber and materials must come up by train. The only timber anywhere nearby is mesquite and that is so hard that you could melt a saw blade trying to plane it. So we bivouac, unless there are families willing to take us in.”

“Do wives bivouac also?” His gaze was sharp as he turned it on her, and she stammered a little. “I mean only that many ladies must find it challenging to live that way after a while.”

“Only lieutenants and captains may marry, and in civilized places there are plenty of houses for the ladies. My last captain’s wife declined to leave her pleasant home in Galveston, so he slept in a tent on the plains like the rest of us.”

“It sounds like our excursion into the Winding Stair Mountains. What do you do for amusement?”

“I read whatever is at hand. If there are ladies and music I like to dance. And I work with the horses.”

“Do you still play your Jew’s harp?”

“I lost it, and have never acquired another. I miss it, though. I do like to have music about me.”

“You should marry a woman who can sing or play, then,” she said.

“Perhaps I should.” He paused. “Are you musical?”

“My voice is true, but not pretty. Mama taught me a little at the piano before I lost my arm.”

They fell into silence, broken by the squeak of the wheels and the clop-clop-clop of Opal’s hooves on the dirt road.

After a minute or two, Mr. LaBoeuf cleared his throat and spoke again. “Mr. Daggett’s home is fashionable and fine, but I was concerned the entire time that I should put a hand or foot wrong and destroy the silks and filigrees and wallpaper. I prefer a home to be smaller and simpler, like my old home in Texas.”

“Oh, where is it? Do you visit often?”

“It is in a pretty little town called Seguin, on the Guadeloupe River, but I have not been there in some years, not since the war.”

“You must miss it.”

LaBoeuf took so long to answer that Mattie thought that he had disregarded her comment. “In some ways. My mother died of a cancer while we were all away. My father remarried with intemperate haste, to a woman who was—and is—no better than she ought to be. I have not returned since.”

“I am sorry,” Mattie said. “How terrible, to come home, expecting to see your dear mother, and find a stranger in her place.”

“It was.” He cleared his throat and spoke again in a brighter tone. “But it was also the making of me. I took myself to Round Rock, to my uncle the farrier’s, and spent several years working with him. I had meant to go for a drover, but my uncle trained me so as to keep me out of trouble; he said he owed it to my mother.”

“That was sensible of him,” Mattie said.

“It was, although I did later try my hand at droving. I managed to stay out of trouble, but my fellows were not the sort of company I wished to keep.” He smirked. “I wanted to believe then that people were more or less hardworking and decent. War or no war, I was still very young.”

“There is nothing wrong in looking for the best in people.”

“There is when those people are brutish and ignorant scofflaws. I saw little that was good amongst those cowboys.”

“You did well to get away from them, then.”

He chuckled. “I was never their prisoner, Mattie.”

She shook her head. “No, I do not mean it in that way. I have found that it is a difficult thing, to go against the herd. To do what your conscience tells you is right, when everyone else wants you to just go along with what they are doing.” She sighed. “It is lonely.”

LaBoeuf said nothing, looking ahead into the pools of light cast by the dash lamps.

“I think of the boy in the dugout sometimes. Moon. He could have been a good man, perhaps he even came from a good family, but he went bad because of the company he kept. It is an old story.”

“Is it?” he asked when he thought he could trust his voice.

“Yes. But you are not the sort of man to be swayed by what others think. I think it is one of your finer qualities.”

“You should tell that to my fellow Rangers. They say that I am a dull old dog.”

“They do not!”

“They do, indeed.”

“Well, I cannot see it.”

“In any event, my skill with horses has always stood me in good stead. It is one of the things that has made me invaluable to the Rangers.”

“I am certain of it. Could you perhaps explain for me why Texas cowboys do not ride mares? I have wondered ever since my father bought those ponies from Col. Stonehill. Mares are more biddable than geldings, after all.”

LaBoeuf’s jaw worked a bit. “Well, I am sure you understand that it is no good to have stallions and mares together in a working herd. But even geldings can take it into their heads that they are stallions, and when a mare is in season, you cannot get a lick of work out of them. And then a broody mare cannot work hard for long, nor can a mare with a foal. It is better for us to have only geldings, and buy fresh blood as needed for the remuda.”

“I had not thought of that. I suppose it makes sense.”

“I am glad you approve,” he said, a note of teasing in his voice.

She sniffed.

LaBoeuf drove the buggy into the barnyard and halted Opal. He came around to Mattie’s side and assisted her from the vehicle.

He unhitched the horse, led her into a stall and began to rub her down. He looked over Opal’s back to see Mattie standing there, and cleared his throat. “When I am done here perhaps you will allow me to prove myself to you.”

She looked at him, alarmed. “In what way?”

“I am accounted a good dancer and I have never once lost control of my partner.”

“Oh, do not trouble yourself,” Mattie said.

“It is no trouble at all.”

“There is no music.”

“Then I will whistle.’

“I do not care to dance, Mr. LaBoeuf,” she said and left the barn.

He sighed and continued to care for the horse. When Opal was cooled down and munching placidly at her oats he let himself out of the stall, extinguished the lantern, and followed Mattie outside.

 

* * *

 

Mattie removed Victoria’s bonnet and her glove and shawl, setting them on the porch. She felt too fidgety to sit, though, and she paced in the moonlight until LaBoeuf emerged from the barn.

“I will lock up for you, and then I will be on my way,” he said.

“I should make the old joke about barn doors and horses.”

“You have a horse still at home, though. Surely she is no less dear than the others.”

She made a small noise of amusement and smiled at him, and then watched as the humor drained from his face as surely as if it were a leaky washtub and she had pulled the plug. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Mattie.”

“Then why are you looking at me so strangely?”

“What is strange about it?” He stepped closer to her, and she had to steel herself against stepping back.

“You look very serious.”

“I am a serious man.” His voice seemed deeper than usual, she thought. Why should it make her face heat to hear him say it?

“You look very…intent.”

He appeared to ponder that for a moment. “I suppose it is because I feel inclined to kiss you.”

“Oh.” Mattie took a breath, swallowed. “Well, that inclination will soon pass, with no harm done to either of us.”

“I am not so certain of it.”

She huffed, indignant. “Mr. LaBoeuf, I suspect that you are only interested at this moment because I am convenient.”

He laughed at that, but she did not find it humorous. “Lord, Mattie. You are many things, but convenient is not one of them.” He caught her hand and caressed the back with his thumb, and she jerked away as if burned.

“I meant, because I appear convenient to you here and now.”

“I know what you meant, but I will stand by my answer.” He pushed his hat back and loomed over her, even though he was only a scant inch or so taller than she.

Mattie was not frightened. Her legs felt twitchy and jittery, as if wanting to run of their own accord, but she had faced LaBoeuf down before. She scowled at him.

He grinned back.

“You must think of your future wife, Mr. LaBoeuf. She will not want you to succumb to such a temptation.”

“What she does not know cannot hurt her,” he said, shrugging.

She gaped at him. “Really!”

“She will not reveal her identity to me, so I see little point to sparing her feelings. It would serve her right.”

“That poor woman!”

“The way I feel now, I may jilt her yet.”

“Perhaps you can joke about such things, but—”

What she was going to say vanished as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. After a moment of shock she forced herself to remain stock still, even as her skin prickled and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

When he released her, she glared at him. “Masher!” she hissed.

“Now, Mattie—” he began, but she wasn’t finished with him.

“I have welcomed you into my home, and this is how you treat me?”

“Come now, sweetheart. I am fond of you—”

“I am not your sweetheart! Where do you get such harebrained ideas? I have not had a word from you in five years and—”

“Had I known you wished it I would certainly have written to you.” His grin was as smug as ever.

She stared at him. “That is not what I meant at all!” She wanted to stamp her foot but resisted the impulse.

“What do you mean? I have a long walk ahead of me before I sleep, so please enlighten me.”

“You are impossible.” She spun around, her skirts twirling and twisting around her legs.

“I will see you tomorrow, then.”

“Not if I see you first! You can take the first train back to Texas as far as I am concerned.”

“Have you forgotten our excursion to Mt.—” he paused.

“Nebo,” she snapped.

“—Nebo tomorrow? I have not. So I will see you then. Good night, Mattie,” he said, as she marched toward the house.

She waited for him to leave before creeping back onto the porch to collect her things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Y’all might have figured out by now that I am an unabashed Coen Brothers geek, and I have scattered some teensy Easter Eggs from some of their other films throughout these chapters. Not so much by design, but just because they made me laugh. 
> 
> I’m terribly slow at updating, and this was no exception. I have no plans to abandon this, and have plotted out and written sections for the next few chapters. Had a lot of IRL upheaval in the past year, for good (DD graduated from HS and went off to college) and ill (DH’s heart attack, from which he has recovered nicely), and working out scenes in my head in the midst was a great distraction (which also led to some storyline revisions, which slowed me down further)! So thank you so much for sticking with me. If you celebrate it, have a Happy Thanksgiving! If you don’t, have a great Thursday!


	6. Chapter 6

LaBoeuf tucked the paper into his vest pocket and stepped out of the telegraph office onto the road.  The weather had turned chilly overnight. A fierce gust of wind buffeted him to the side, making his steps a bit unsteady. He turned up his collar, pushed down his hat, and headed towards the Ross farm.

The chill and wind made for an unpleasant walk, and he was glad when he finally saw the Ross’s barn through the trees.  Mattie might still be angry with him, but she would surely offer him a cup of coffee. At least he hoped so.

His arrival was announced by Hector, the old bird dog, who barked a few times and then walked out on stiff legs to meet him. Mattie eyed him as he approached, but kept to her task.

“Good morning,” he said, raising his voice so she might hear him above the wind.

“Good morning,” she replied.  She was not scowling at him outright, but the set of her mouth and jaw hinted at her displeasure.

“I must apologize to you, Mattie,” he said.

She paused for a moment before continuing to work at the horse’s traces.  “Oh?” she asked, pressing her lips together.

“I was rude and impetuous last night.”

That got her attention.  She stopped what she was doing and looked at him.  “Yes, you were.”

“I am sorry for it.”

“I see.”  She rested her hand on the horse’s withers. “Thank you for saying that.”

“I imagine it was the whiskey,” he said.

“You will get no sympathy from me there,” she said.

“I expect none.”

“Hm,” she said.

“Would you by chance have any coffee ready?” he asked. “I left my lodgings before my landlady made breakfast.”

She shook her head and clucked her tongue at him.  “Everyone says Mrs. Hayden sets a fine board for her lodgers.”

“Well, you see, I was in no mood to wait,” he said, and gave her a sheepish smile.

“There is coffee, but whether it is still warm I cannot say.”

“I will take it, and gladly.  Let me finish up with your cart here and then we can go.”

“All right,” she said, and put the straps in his hands.

A few minutes later, she came out from the kitchen with a steaming cup in her hand and something tucked under her amputated arm.  He wiped his hands on his trousers and took the coffee from her with a murmured “Thank you.”  Then she gave him two thick pieces of buttered bread, wrapped awkwardly in waxed paper.  “I thought you might want something to eat later,” she said.

He tucked the food in his pocket, bolted the last of the coffee, and handed the cup back to her. “I think we are ready to go.”

“I will put these things in the kitchen and tell Mama that we are going, then.”

 

* * *

 

 They were soon under way, heading west toward the mountain.

“Tell me about this Babcock,” LaBoeuf said after they had got on the main road. “Was there anything unusual about him, anything to set him apart from other men?”

“He was a smooth talker, but that is not so unusual.”

“What about his grooming?”

“His grooming? He kept himself tidy, I suppose.  Lawyer Daggett called him a dandy, but…” Mattie stopped, wrinkling her nose.

“Yes?”

“He was too fond of the bay rum, I thought. A little bit is well enough, but he seemed to bathe in it.”

LaBoeuf smiled. 

“Oh, what is it, Mr. LaBoeuf?  Have you heard something?”

“What of his height?  Was he as tall as me?  Taller or shorter?”

“Ah…I think his boots made him appear taller than he was.  He was perhaps my height, but I never saw him in stocking feet, and never hope to.”

LaBoeuf pulled the telegraph from his breast pocket.  “Read this,” he said, and handed it to her.

 

_Wichita Falls, Tex, April 18th 1885_

_To: Sergeant LaBoeuf, Ranger Coy. B (Det), Dardanelle, Ark_

_Five nine slim_

_Brown hair beard 26_

_Bay Rum hence Stinky_

_Robbery assault_

_McMurry_

 

She looked up at him. “Oh, Mr. LaBoeuf! That is him. It must be,” Mattie said.

“There could be something in this for me after all,” LaBoeuf said. “The bounty is sure to have gone up as his crimes have—” He stopped talking and cleared his throat.

“As his crimes have escalated,” she murmured.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“It is all right,” she said, and sank into glum silence.  None of his attempts at conversation was successful in drawing her out.  They rode on for half a mile without speaking.

“It is my fault,” Mattie said at length.

“What is?” LaBoeuf asked, startled to hear her voice again.

“Victoria. It is my fault she ran off.”

“I do not see how that could be,” he said.

“Nevertheless.  It is my fault.”

“How do you figure?”

“After we received your letter, Little Frank began to tease me about you.”

“Oh?”

“He loves to tease people, and the more he thinks it tells on you, the better. He kept on and on about how I was trying to show you what a good housekeeper I was so you could be induced to marry me.” Her face was blotchy with embarrassment.

“I see,” LaBoeuf said, a little red faced himself.

“Victoria was whining about the housework, and between that and my brother’s jokes, I lost my temper. I asked her how she would like it if I, ah, married you, and went off, leaving her alone to take care of Mama and the farm and Frank. Well.  She went all quiet, and the next day she was gone.  So you see.” She paused. “I am sorry to bring you into it, even in jest. You never asked for such gross speculation.”

“Well,” LaBoeuf said, and fell silent for a moment. “Well, there are worse things than being taken for the suitor of a lovely and respectable young woman.”

Mattie looked sharply at him, as though trying to find an insult in his words. She sniffed. “Oh, yes, such an honor for you.”

“It is not _dis_ honor.”

“Hm.” She looked away, raising her eyebrows in dismissal.

“Have I offended you in some way?”

“I mistrust flattery, particularly when the flatterer has made no bones of how ‘unattractive’ I am.”

LaBoeuf scrunched up his forehead. “When did I—” he began and stopped, but he still looked confused.

“In Ft. Smith, of course. When we first met.”

LaBoeuf’s face cleared. “Why, you thought little enough of _me_ at that time. Dare I to hope that your opinion might have changed a little?”

Mattie shrugged. “A _very_ little,” she said, and LaBoeuf smiled at her.

“Well, there you have it.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Would you like to play a game to pass the time?” Mattie asked.

“What sort of a game?” he asked.

“Something you can do while driving. Crambo, perhaps?”

“I suppose we could. What happens if I guess your answer or you forfeit? What do I win?”

She thought about it for a moment.  “A penny.”

He laughed out loud.  “I will not enter into financial dealings with you, least of all over a parlor game.  If just a few questions go poorly for me I could end up in your indenture for years.”

She raised her eyebrows, as though acknowledging the possibility, absurd though it was.  “Then what would you like?”

The road was clear and flat, and he just looked at her for a long time, long enough that she wanted to look away. By that point, though, maintaining eye contact with him felt like a contest, one that she could not bear to lose.

“A kiss.”

Her jaw dropped in outrage even as her breath caught.  “Is that all you ever think about?”

“Far from it; there are few things that could induce me to play at a silly game, though, and that is one of them.”

“Absolutely not.”

He shrugged, and turned his attention back to the road ahead.

She felt a fluttering, sinking sensation in her belly and an aching in her throat.  It felt like a curious combination of relief and disappointment.

_What could it hurt, though?_  There was little chance that she would forfeit, still less that she would lose her head and be overcome by some, heretofore unknown, ungovernable passion.  A rude, silly boy had kissed her once at a picnic and it had not stirred her at all.  To the contrary, she had found it silly, mildly unpleasant and easy to repent, especially after he had joked about it with his friends in her hearing.  Even LaBoeuf’s stolen kiss the night before had failed to shake her composure.

“I know a word that rhymes with ‘coil,’” Mattie said before she could lose her nerve.

LaBoeuf looked over at her with sudden alertness and excitement.  She saw his throat move as he swallowed.  “Will it make me weary?” he asked in a low voice.

“No, it is not ‘toil.’”

“Will it hinder my plans?” he asked.

She thought about that one for a bit, pursing her lips.  His gaze went to her mouth and lingered there, and she had to look away to concentrate.  “No,” she said after a few moments.  “It is not ‘foil.’”

“I nearly had you there,” he said, and she sniffed.  “Do they make fine soap with it?”

“It is not ‘oil.’”

“Is it how my wife might cook my supper?”

“Your wife?” she asked.  “What wife is this?”

“Yes or no, or I will claim my forfeit,” he said.

She made an exasperated sound.  “No, it is not ‘boil.’  You told me you were not married, Mr. LaBoeuf.”

“I am not yet, of course, but will be eventually.  Does it describe a king?”

“What?”

“This word that rhymes with ‘coil;’ does it describe a king?”

She frowned in concentration, looking up as she went through her mental tally of possible words. 

“Have I gotten it?” he asked, and she held up her hand.

“One more moment.”

“Your time is up,” he said.  “What was your word?”

She gave him an irritated look.  “Mine was ‘soil.’  What was yours?”

“’Royal.’”

Her mouth worked before she sputtered at him.  “’Royal’ and ‘soil’ do not rhyme, Mr. LaBoeuf.”

“They do when I say them: ‘royal’ and ‘soil.’  See?”

“Only in Texas could those words rhyme.  I say you cheat.”

He goggled at her in pretend shock.  “That is exactly the sort of talk that could get you into serious trouble in my neck of the woods.  You are fortunate that I have a temperate disposition.” 

“Temperate!” Mattie cried, scoffing.

“You owe me a forfeit, or will it be pistols at dawn?”

“Oh!  Very well.”  She paused and turned so she was facing him.  She screwed her eyes shut and puckered her lips so firmly that they stuck out as far as her nose. 

He reined in the horse, and after looking both up and down the road, tied the reins to the dashboard.  He moved himself closer to her, closer than propriety would allow for conversation.  Flyaway strands of hair around her face danced as his breath stirred them.  He touched her chin, tilting her face up, and there he stopped, just looking at her.

After a while she could not maintain the forced attitude of her eyes and mouth. She relaxed a tiny amount, opening her eyes by a sliver.  She swallowed and her lips parted.  Her hand was splayed against his chest, as though pushing him away but she did not push. He covered her hand with his own, and put his other arm around her shoulders.  He dipped his head down to hers, but instead of going straight for her lips he traced the line of her nose with his own.

Well.  It was odd, but inoffensive.  Was this what people meant when they spoke of “billing and cooing”?  She had never imagined herself being so silly, but she did not feel silly.  She felt… tender.  Like a fresh bruise or the start of a cold. Not uncomfortable precisely. Just strange.

He caressed her cheek in the same way, moving up towards her forehead.  His breath was warm and soft on her skin.  She swallowed.

He pressed a kiss—just a dabbing of pursed lips—to her temple and she closed her eyes again.   _This is how girls forget themselves_ , she thought, wondering at the notion. She turned her face to him like a sunflower to the sun.

And then he released her.

She did not wobble although she felt queer and off balance, as though she had taken a slug of Dr. Underwood’s Bile Activator.  Her teeth wanted to chatter together.  She clenched her jaw, feeling relieved and angry and alarmed, all at once.

LaBoeuf picked up the reins and told Opal to walk on. He began to whistle, and Mattie scowled. _The very_ gall _of the man!_

* * *

 

 

The summerhouse sat close to a small clearing, although trees grew thickly around it, shading it from the sun. Even from the cart it was plain that no one had disturbed the building in some time. A shrub had overgrown the path to the cabin, and leaves and pine needles lay in a thick mat against the threshold.

Even without looking at her, LaBoeuf was aware of Mattie’s dismay. She said nothing, but she made a small, choked sound, and then he felt her sit straighter in her seat. He reached for her hand, giving it a quick squeeze, and then he cleared his throat. “Let us go and make sure, Mattie.”

“Yes,” she said, but she stayed where she was. LaBoeuf climbed out of the gig and went over to Mattie’s side, holding out his hand for her to take. After a moment she did, and he helped her down.

She walked more slowly than he had ever seen her. When her skirt caught on the shrub, she paused and carefully disengaged the thorn before continuing. She pulled a key from her pocket and inserted it in the rusty padlock holding the door closed. LaBoeuf had to grab the lock to keep it from swinging while she turned the key. With a crusty, grinding sound, the lock finally disengaged, and LaBoeuf swung open the door.

The first thing he was aware of was the overpowering reek of mouse piss. The puncheon floor was littered with dust, pine needles, bare rodent bones and little tufts of fur and detritus that he identified as pack rat piles.

Mattie dropped the key in her pocket, and entered the cabin. “Will you open the shutters, please?” she asked him in a tight voice.

“Yes, of course,” he said.

Mattie remained inside while he walked around outside, unhooking the latches on the shutters and opening them. The insides of the two windows were somewhat covered by canvas stretched on wooden frames fitted to each opening. The canvas was old and sagging and riddled with holes both small and large.  Mattie pulled the frames free, allowing light to enter the cabin.

LaBoeuf went back inside. With the windows and door open the smell was starting to improve. Mattie had located a bedraggled broom, and was dragging it across the floor, trying to clear away some of the mess. He could now see a hand-hewn table in the room, surrounded by sawed stump seats, a small stone hearth, and a threadbare straw tick mattress moldering in its bed frame on the opposite wall. A sturdy-looking ladder led to a small sleeping loft.

“They did not come through here,” Mattie said.

“It does not look like it,” LaBoeuf said.

“At the least I should have brought soap and scrub brushes,” Mattie said, almost to herself.

“Perhaps later in the year,” LaBoeuf said.

“Yes,” she said.

LaBoeuf pulled one of the stumps from under the table and sat heavily upon it. “When is the last time you were here?”

“Before Papa died. Mama is always so bothered by the mosquitoes in summer, so he would bring us up here to stay while he mostly remained at the farm, which is what I do. Little Frank is supposed to take care of it, but clearly…”

“Clearly.” LaBoeuf exhaled, impatient. “He should be doing more to help you, Mattie.”

“I know,” she said. She nudged another stump away from the table and sat beside him.

“I mean it. I know that you have had a lot to shoulder since your father died.”

“I am proud to take care of my family. It is my duty to Papa.”

“It is Frank’s duty, also.”

She nodded “Yes, it is.”

“And your mother’s. And…and your sister’s. If no one helps you, how are you supposed to leave and start your own family someday?”

“I expect that I will not; I must be content with that,” she said, her expression taking on a mulish look.

LaBoeuf sighed. “I doubt that your father would want you to live as an anchorite, tied to vows you never made.”

“Who else is there? Frank hates the farm and will leave at his earliest opportunity. Victoria— _if_  she comes home—she has no aptitude for numbers or cotton. The doctor insists that Mama must always take chloral for her nerves. So it all falls to me.”

LaBoeuf shook his head slowly and chewed on his lower lip. “You deserve better,” he said finally.

“It is neither here nor there.”

“What if—” LaBoeuf began, and then closed his mouth.

“What if…” she prompted, looking at him, but he said nothing, and they just sat listening to the wind rustling through the pines and Opal and her tack shifting in the clearing. 

After a moment or two, he stood. “I should get water for the horse. Is there a bucket I could fill at that pump?” he asked, pointing vaguely out front.

Mattie went over to the door and closed it partway, revealing some shelves and a tin bucket hanging on a peg. “You will have to prime it first,” she said, handing the bucket to him.

“I never travel without water, just in case,” LaBoeuf said, and went outside. Mattie followed him.

He went to the gig and retrieved a cloth-covered canteen from behind the seat, and carried it to the hand pump. Mattie watched as he drizzled water down the throat of the pump, wetting the gasket, and then worked the handle. It took a while; by the time water ran freely, LaBoeuf had removed his jacket and tossed it to the grass and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He dragged his powerful forearm across his forehead, and then tipped out the canteen before refilling it from the stream of water. He drank deeply from the vessel even as he worked the pump handle; the bucket caught the excess.

“Whew!” he said. “That is a good well.  Cold and sweet.” He wiped his lip with his sleeve. “Forgive me; would you like some water?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said. He handed her the canteen before carrying the filled bucket to the horse. The water tasted as good as she had remembered it.

He returned to her side, smelling of exertion and sunshine and something that was LaBoeuf alone. She shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“Just a chill,” she said.

He nodded and took the canteen from her, taking another great swig from the bottle. She watched the muscles in his throat as he drank. He was only a little taller than she was, but she felt overpowered and fluttery, like a chicken next to a Cooper’s hawk. Was that how Victoria had felt with Babcock?

As if reading her mind, LaBoeuf said, “I understand why you wanted to check this place. If I wanted a place to elope to, this would be it.” Their gazes met, and she felt something sharp and hungry stab at her belly. LaBoeuf cleared his throat and dropped his eyes. “I mean, plenty of water, game everywhere, and hardly anyone around. This would be a good spot to hide.  Let me refill this, and then we can close up the cabin and return to town.”

“Of course,” Mattie said. She went back and began to fit the canvas frames back inside the window openings. It took a few minutes, because she had to strike one side of the frame with the heel of her hand, which made the other side jump out of place, but eventually the windows were covered and LaBoeuf latched the shutters. He tipped out the last drops from the bucket and hung it on its peg before closing the door and forcing the padlock closed again.

 

* * *

 

The drive back to town was uneventful at first. They talked of inconsequential things every so often, but they were largely silent. They passed a few farmers and riders on the way, but they were no one that Mattie knew.

LaBoeuf’s body was warm and solid in the seat next to her. She watched his hands and wrists as he held the reins, almost painfully aware of the sharp bones and muscles and calluses that marked him as a man who worked capably with his hands. She had always been put off by men with soft, smooth hands, the Yankee drummer being the most recent example. There was something untrustworthy, even unwholesome, about them.

Of course, Lawyer Daggett’s hands were a little soft now, but he was the exception. When he had lived on their property, he had worked as hard as any man, and now that he was wealthy he had earned the right to hire others to work for him.

When she had been a very young girl, before Mrs. Daggett had come from Memphis and before Tom Chaney, Mattie had figured that she would someday marry Mr. Daggett. Aside from her father, he had been the only man who had approved of her or encouraged her odd turns of mind. She had thought it would be a very agreeable life.

That had been before she grew up, though. When she had learned enough to piece together a few bare facts about marital relations, she was glad that her girlhood imaginings had not come to pass. While she loved Mr. Daggett, she did not think she would have liked sharing a bed—or anything else—with him. He had continued to treat her with the same avuncular fondness as always, and she was glad of it.

And then there was LaBoeuf.  She looked up at him, making a study of the lines of his face as he drove.  The vertical plane from his forehead to his chin indicated intelligence, and his strong jaw indicated stubbornness, both of which she could confirm from life. His eyes were hooded, which gave him a deceptively sleepy look until he turned the force of his gaze on her.

Which, of course, he did, clearly smiling at her even though the corners of his mouth turned down. “What is it?” he asked.

She dropped her eyes.  “Nothing.”

“If you were looking for flaws you would not have to study so closely. I keep them right out front, where everyone can see.”  He wiggled the tip of his nose like a rabbit.

“Perhaps I am looking for signs of intelligence,” she quipped.

“Ah,” he said. “You would not be the first. Let me know how you get on.”

Mattie laughed. “The Mr. LaBoeuf I used to know would never have said this. He seemed very set on securing my good opinion.”

LaBoeuf nodded.  “He was. You were a tough customer. But I like to think that you and I understand one another better now.”

“Do we?” she asked.

“Very much so.” He gave her a look that made her breath catch in her throat. “For instance, I know that you hate to lose.”

“Everyone does,” Mattie sniffed.

“…And that having lost, you would relish the chance to even the score.”

Mattie just looked at him as though he were the greatest fool in Yell County.

“Which is why I would be willing to engage in one— _just one_ —more round of Crambo with you. To spare your pride. It is the least I can do for an old trail pardner.”

This was so patently ridiculous that she hooted before clapping her hand over her mouth.  “Oh, you would, would you? What a saintly sacrifice.”

He chuckled at her, and then rubbed one of his knuckles against his lower lip.  “I know a word that rhymes with ‘sweet.’”

She narrowed her eyes at him.  “Oh, very well.  Are they in my shoes?”

“No, it is not ‘feet’.”

“Is it tidy?”

“No, it is not ‘neat.’”

“Is it the sound a sheep makes?”

“No, it is not ‘bleat.’”

“Is it how Paddy O’Brien keeps warm?”

He was silent for a few moments.

“Your time is spent; do you forfeit, Mr. LaBoeuf?”  Her face grew warm as laughter threatened to burst out.

“No, I do not, and it is not ‘peat.’”  He grinned at her.  “You figured I would say ‘heat,’ did you?”

She shrugged.  “Is it where you keep your brains?” she asked, in a tone that was as close to ‘sweet’ as she could muster.

He had two choices: he could admit to her that his brains were in his ‘seat,’ or he could forfeit, neither of which he could find particularly appealing, she thought.  He gave a long-suffering sigh and spoke.  “No, it is not ‘seat.’”

“Are you certain of that?”

“Ask your question or forfeit,” he snapped.

“Is it… is it subtle?”

He blinked.  “Yes, it _is_ ‘discreet.’”  He reined in the horse and then tilted his head to the side, regarding her.  “What must I forfeit?”

She thought for a moment. Could she really be so wicked?  “The same as before, I think,” she said in a low voice, staring at his lapels. 

He swallowed, tied off the reins, and then rubbed his palms against his trouser legs.  “Only the one, though; I do not want you thinking I am fast.”  His eyes twinkled at his joke, but Mattie’s throat was too dry to laugh at him.

He dipped his head a little, and she leaned forward a little and pressed a kiss to his mouth.  The momentum was all hers: she made it happen.  His lips were warm and soft against hers.  A bright, silver thrill ran through her body, making her shiver, and then he put his arms around her and kissed her right back.

After what seemed like forever but was probably less than a minute, she started and pulled away a little, putting some space between them. 

He sighed and pressed his forehead to hers.  “Oh, my girl.  You are sweet.”

As a rule she disliked tobacco.  She disliked the mess and she most particularly disliked the expense.  But on LaBoeuf’s breath the trace of pipe tobacco was pleasant, even comforting.  She breathed him in, humming a little as she exhaled.

He stroked her cheek with his knuckles, which was unaccountably nice, and then he pulled her closer, tucking her under his arm and kissing her as she flailed a little, trying to find her balance.  His mouth slanted across hers, and he was holding her so closely, kissing her with such focus that it took a long time for her to realize that his cheek was pressed against her nose and she couldn’t breathe. She struggled, trying to catch her breath, and he released her, but not all the way.

“Are you my girl, Mattie?” he murmured. He cupped her face in his hands.

Her breathing was easier, but she still sounded winded when she spoke. “Yes,” she whispered.  “I think I am.”

He had the strangest look on his face, she thought, happy and worried all at once. His mouth was red and his eyes were so blue… She closed her eyes and kissed him again until he took her shoulders between his hands and gently moved her away from him.

“There, now,” he said in a rough voice. He seemed to be concentrating on taking deep breaths. “There. We should get going. This road will not be empty all day.”

Her face burned from LaBoeuf’s whiskers, and she could taste him on her lips.

“Are you ready?” he asked. “Do we need to make a stop here first?”

Mattie nodded, lost in her thoughts.

“Do you need to stop?” LaBoeuf asked, elaborately patient.

“Oh! Ah, no,” she said, and he directed the horse to walk.

The new and tenuous thing between them did not seem to admit much speech, but they spent the next little while taking turns at watching the other and making shy, silly grins. Anyone riding up on them would have thought them escaped lunatics, Mattie thought with her usual asperity, even though her thoughts seemed muffled by a thick layer of wool padding. A couple of kisses and she was lost to all good sense.

They made a left turn to take the road to Mattie’s house, and soon overcame a slight young man on a safety bicycle. As soon as he saw Mattie, he began waving madly, flagging them down, and LaBoeuf pulled the gig to a halt.

“Miss Ross,” the man said, gasping. Mattie recognized him as the assistant to the telegraph operator.

“Yes, Mr. Harrison?”

“Telegraph for you,” he said, handing her the envelope.  She fished a few coins from her pocket for a tip, and then the telegraph man was wheeling his bicycle around and heading back to town.

Without ceremony she tore open the envelope with her teeth and tugged out the slip of paper.  “Oh!” she said and her mouth dropped open.

“What is it?” LaBoeuf asked.

“Little Frank has found her. She is in Hot Springs.”


End file.
